


Hear my voice, Know my name

by roadsoftrial



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: M/M, Modern AU, Recreational Drug Use, Strangers to Lovers, canada is a real place that exists, dan gladdi u distracti, drummer!Gladio, mild slow burn, takes place in toronto, tattoo artist!Ignis
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-01
Updated: 2018-06-28
Packaged: 2019-04-17 01:34:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14177700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roadsoftrial/pseuds/roadsoftrial
Summary: Ignis needs a fresh start.Gladio needs a tattoo.It seemed simple enough.(Or: the tattoo shop/musician AU you didn't know you wanted!)





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> In which Ignis broods, Gladio nearly has a heart attack and Prompto is just trying to take his pants off in peace, man.
> 
> (Beta'd by the lovely [Aliatori](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aliatori)!)

Of all the things Ignis dislikes in this life, moving has to be the worst. It’s messy and time-consuming and overwhelming, no matter what elaborate, pragmatic system he may have come up with to make it feel easier.

Aranea had come to help him move out of the shop, reluctantly more than anything else, because Nyx had asked her, because Nyx wanted it done as fast as possible. So did Ignis, all things considered. It would have been easier if Nyx had come to help him, but neither of them had truly wanted that. So Aranea had helped him pack his gear and his furniture, stuff Nyx’s truck with all of his belongings, taken his keys and watched him walk out, all in an almost complete, spiteful silence.

Not that he could blame her for taking Nyx’s side.

It hadn’t ended in a bloodbath like Ignis had suspected it might. It had ended in drawn out silences, in avoided gazes, in tired eyes (his), in unruly tears and begrudgingly runny noses (Nyx’s). Ignis had aimed for kindness, but there’s only so much kindness to be found in running away. It hadn’t ended in a bloodbath, but it was no happy ending.

He couldn’t blame anyone for not siding with him. He was the asshole, all things considered.

Moving out of the shop had been easy, he supposes. The apartment is another matter entirely. He has so many _things,_ so many things he doesn’t need but doesn’t have the heart to throw away, so many things he doesn’t want to take, but can’t leave for Nyx to deal with (because that would be too cruel). So many things he can’t bring but wishes he could. A few, select few things (that would remind him of Nyx), that he doesn’t want to leave behind, can’t toss and can’t bring with him. It’s a mess, a whole, terrible mess.

Moving is the worst.

Moving out of your ex-boyfriend’s apartment is the worst.

Moving out of the country, overseas, to his new life… it’s a hassle, sure, but maybe it isn’t the worst thing in the world. That’s the only thought that keeps him going, the only incentive fueling his movements as he feels his arms getting tired, as the dust goes to his sinuses, as he slowly, methodically sets fire to the bridge he has carefully slathered with fuel all on his own. He tosses all that he can’t bear to look at anymore in a large, black bag, and to hell with sentimentality (or so he tries to convince himself).

He’ll be gone by morning before Nyx comes back.

Nyx has decided to stay out of his hair by erasing himself completely. He’d simply… disappeared, going as far as cancelling all of his appointments for the week. He’d been, it turns out, spending the week at Aranea’s, per her confession. He hadn’t wanted Ignis to know, and again, could he really blame him? Nyx had given him a week to move out. Why he had waited until the very last day, he can’t quite tell. It didn’t feel so real, so final, so long as they still pretended to live together.

He wishes he could’ve talked to Nyx, one last time, seen his face, just one more time. He wishes they could talk again, that Nyx could forgive him his own shortcomings, that they could conclude on a better note than the last time they had spoken. He isn’t quite sure what he could tell him, not quite sure anything he might say would be enough to mend anything.

This is, still, a pretty fucking awful situation.

He piles his boxes by the door. The movers will be there first thing in the morning to get it all off his hands. His uncle will be there soon after to drive him to the airport.

He isn’t quite convinced he’s ready. But what else is he supposed to do when a city of eight million people still feels too stifling for the two of them?

Besides, Regis had made him an offer he’d had trouble saying no to the first time. An offer that seemed too good to be true, all things considered. But there it was, still on the table two years later, when he had been in most dire need of an escape, and he had just grabbed it and ran.

It feels wrong, still, to leave, sneak out like a bandit without a word. That’s what’s on his mind when he decides to call Nyx after all.

He can’t say he’s surprised when a nondescript woman’s voice lets him know the number he has dialed is no longer in service.

It’s time to go.

***

It’s a Tuesday morning like any other.

Gladio is sprawled on the couch, phone in hand, jumping from app to app in hope that someone out there will finally decide to post something interesting, that something, _anything_ will come up to distract him from his boredom. He only has a few hours left before work, and he sure as hell hopes he won’t have to spend them like this.

Prompto is sitting on the floor, a beat up Les Paul that looks older than him taking up the entire coffee table, surrounded by its countless parts as well as the entirety of Prompto’s tool box. For all the almost ten years they have been friends, Prompto has never been able to work in an organized fashion, and Gladio has given up on arguing with him about it. All he can do at this point is pretend the mess isn’t there and try to avoid walking on the tools and small, oh so small guitar bits and pieces that keep sneaking their way off the table and onto the floor of their apartment, and conveniently lodging themselves into Gladio’s bare feet.

‘Can you believe they were about to throw it out?’ Prompto says without lifting his eyes from his work, glasses nearly falling off the tip of his nose. ‘A _babe_ like that, Gladio!’

‘So the guy gave it to you?’

‘Oh, no, I bought it from him!’

‘Bought it?’ Gladio asks, taking his eyes off his phone at last. ‘Prom, it doesn’t even _work._ ’

‘Yet!’ Prompto replies, far too confident for the sorry shape the instrument in front of him is really in.

‘Prom, we can barely make rent this month, why are you being dumb? Cor’s gonna yell at us again.’

‘Dad’s cool,’ Prompto shrugs, ‘It’s a gift for him, so…’

‘You mean you’ll bring it to his house and play it there instead of here?’

‘Yeah, a gift!’

‘Whatever,’ Gladio grunts, recognizing a lost cause when he sees one. ‘You explain that to him. I had nothing to do with it.’

‘Yeah, yeah, you big baby.’

Gladio lets out an exaggerated sigh as his eyes turn to look at the notification on his phone.

‘Oh _hello_ ,’ he whispers without quite meaning to.

Prompto turns his head, realizing after a second that Gladio is talking to his phone and not him. Again.

‘Oh. Well, I’ll leave you two to it,’ Prompto says as he gets up, grabbing his trashed guitar by the handle. He stands there for a hot second, waiting for a reaction that never comes. He shrugs and heads towards his room.

Gladio grunts in response about five seconds too late, captivated by the update from his favourite Instagram user, a London-based tattoo artist whose intricate black and white works caught Gladio’s attention a few month ago. The fact that he is also unbelievably beautiful, based on the rare selfie on his otherwise work-only account, may have played a small role in his interest in the man.

He has a few updates in his Instagram story, about five different finished works (no selfie, sadly), and then… an announcement? Gladio takes a long hard look, going back when the timer runs out two, three times, eyes opening wide, to make sure he isn’t dreaming.

‘PROM,’ he yells, jumping off the couch, voice breaking just a little bit.

He runs to Prompto’s bedroom, paying no mind to the spare drum parts that he trips over and nearly cause him to crash into the wall. This is more important.

‘ _Prom_ , holy _shit_ _Prom_!’ he yells again once he reaches the door, banging on it like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do.

‘Hold on, fuck!’ Prompto yells back.

Gladio opens the door anyway.

‘ _Dude_ ,’ Prompto says, halfway through taking off his pants. ‘We’ve talked about thi—’

‘Prom…,’ he pauses to catch his breath, ‘Prom. He. Shop. Next month. Here. HERE PROMPTO!’

Prompto can do nothing but stare, trying to piece together the answer to the riddle Gladio is presenting him.

‘Use your words, buddy. You can do it,’ Prompto snarks.

A roll of Gladio’s eyes.

A deep breath.

‘Ignis Scientia is opening a shop in Toronto.’

A beat.

‘ _Dude._ ’

‘He’s… he’s moving here, Prom. Holy shit, HOLY SHIT…’

A Tuesday morning like any other.

 


	2. Firsts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ignis texts a lot, Gladio embarrasses himself and Noctis drives likes a Montrealer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta'd by the wonderful [aliatori](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aliatori/)!

Ignis wakes up to the blaring sound of his alarm feeling like he hasn’t gone to sleep at all. The past week has gone in an endless blur of apartment hunting, supervising the renovation work at the new shop, work visa approbations, and interminable, scattered deliveries of his work equipment and personal belongings, all of which have ended piled up in a corner of the guest bedroom in Regis’ house. All of this, along with the lingering effects of jet lag on his system, has taken its toll.

Regis has been kind enough to let him stay with him and Noctis until he gets settled.

He has always been too kind to him, from the moment he was made Ignis’ godfather, all those years ago. He had in kept touch with Ignis throughout the years, even after he had moved abroad with Noctis, supported him and his craft when even his own parents had not. He had offered, more than once, to help Ignis open his own studio, no strings attached. Ignis had always been touched by the offer, but never truly considered it, not while he and Nyx were going strong in business and love.

Things had started to fall apart shortly after.

He had done the cowardly thing, in retrospect, but why delay the inevitable? Better to cut things off in one swift motion than to let it linger.

The text notification sound on his phone startles him before he can go further down that road. Dwelling on past mistakes is not, all things considered, the best way to initiate this new beginning of his. He pulls the phone off the nightstand and swipes it open.

Noctis [8:29 am] _You up?_

Ignis [8:29 am] _I am._

Noctis [8:30 am] _Can I come in?_

A sigh.

Ignis [8:32 am] _If you must_

Noctis enters the room seconds after Ignis presses send. Ignis squints at the sharp light coming from the hallway as he wonders briefly why he couldn’t simply knock. Noctis leaves the door open behind him, sends a shy smile and a quick nod his way before he sits at the foot of the bed, staring at the stacks of boxes filling up the usually spacious bedroom.

 ‘Did… did you need me for anything?’ Ignis asks after long seconds of awkward silence.

‘Huh? Oh, right,’ he says, bringing his attention back to Ignis. ‘Sorry, I just, um, I had an idea. For, y’know, for the shop.’

He stares at his fingers, then, waiting for Ignis to tell him to continue. Ignis glances at him a few seconds longer, wondering what happened to the chatty, confident little boy he used to spend his summers with.

‘I’m listening,’ he says eventually, hoping he doesn’t sound as exasperated as he is starting to feel. If they’re going to be spending all of their time together, better not pick unnecessary fights, he rationalizes.

‘So you have a pretty big Instagram following, yeah? What if we did a ‘five first to book an appointment gets 50% off’ kinda deal on there?’

Ignis takes a moment to consider all the ways this idea could go wrong. He can’t find that many, surprisingly enough.

‘It’s kind of dumb, we don’t have to if you th—'

‘That’s not a bad idea, Noct. I’ll run it by the accountant later today,’ Ignis interrupts with a soft smile.

Noctis’ expression perks up ever so slightly at the hints of praise in Ignis’ voice, a spark of pride for a job well done. Noctis will take his victories where he can, Ignis supposes.

‘Cool. Cool,’ he grins, getting off the bed. ‘I gotta… do you need to go to the shop today? I can drive you. If, um, if you want.’

‘I’ll let you know if I do. Thank you, Noct.’

Noctis looks at him for just a little too long, smiles timidly before mumbling something about needing to be somewhere that Ignis can’t understand, then rushes out the room, slamming the door behind him. Ignis falls back into his pillows and slowly rubs his eyes with his fingers before pulling the blanket back over his shoulders.

He should be excited that Noctis will be part of this with him, should be excited to take him as an apprentice. They were friends for a long time, after all—they go way back. But since Ignis got here, holding a conversation with him has proven… challenging, and he can’t help the sense of impending doom he gets when he looks at Noctis’ tired, indifferent eyes. He hopes deep down, that he’ll be able to give Noctis the kick in the rear he needs, to make him excited about _something_ , ambitious, even.

It had been Regis’ condition for going into business with Ignis: he was to take Noctis as an apprentice as soon as the shop got on track. Ignis had been thrilled with the idea, excited to work with his childhood best friend. That is, until he met with Noctis for the first time in almost four years, and struggled to recognize the happy kid he once knew.

The past few years hadn’t been kind to Noctis, Regis had explained later on, after Noctis had excused himself to go back to his video game. He had dealt with a string of depressive episodes that had made him drop out of art school and rendered him unable hold onto a job, unable to take care of himself enough to live on his own. Regis had taken him back in and had been reluctant to throw him out of the nest again, understandably so. But Noctis had been doing better, these days. He had started going out again, had gotten back into drawing and had been unexpectedly interested when he’d learned about Ignis’ new shop.

Ignis is excited to teach him, he really is. He simply hopes it’ll be enough to keep Noctis excited, too.

—

A shower, a hot cup of coffee (or three), and a few quick phone calls to his accountant and his graphic designer later, Ignis has a nice advertisement ready to go up on social media later in the afternoon. He settles on 40% off for the first ten reservations, which will bring good publicity at minimal cost as long as the tattoos are reasonably sized. He hopes no one will come asking for anything too ambitious.

Here goes nothing.

***

‘We’re not recording a cover of _Sunglasses at Night,_ Prompto, fucking _drop_ it!’ Crowe yells in the microphone when Prompto won’t stop trying to make his point to his exhausted bandmates for the fifth time this week.

‘But it’s a classic!’

‘It’s tacky!’

‘ _You’re_ tacky!’

‘Prompto I swear to _god—_ '

Crowe and Prompto are going at it, as they do at least once whenever they have band practice. Gladio and Pelna know better than to intervene by now, choosing to stay comfortably seated on the beat up couch in Cor’s basement instead, snickering at the scene developing in front of them. They could be there a while. Crowe is one of the few people Gladio knows to be as stubborn as Prompto, and he would worry about things getting too heated between the two of them if he didn’t find their petty fights so damn entertaining.

Besides, they’ve always made up by the time the session ends.

‘She’s right, Prom,’ Gladio says once he starts to accept defeat. ‘We can’t afford covers right now.’

‘Besides, we’re supposed to be updating the setlist,’ Pelna adds in a calm voice, ‘not talking covers.’

‘Fuck,’ Prompto sighs, flopping onto the couch next to Gladio, guitar still strapped on his shoulder, almost hitting Gladio in the face with the headstock.

‘ _Prom_ ,’ Gladio hisses at an oblivious Prompto, who simply ignores him in favour of points in favour of a cheesy cover in their set.

‘We don’t even need to pay royalties for live covers, guys, I checked!’ he cries under the others’ protests.

Gladio tunes him out, deciding to let Crowe handle it. She does a much better job at it than he ever could, anyway.

He hears the _ding_ of his phone and allows himself a little peek when he sees who just posted a new picture. Except it’s not a picture, it’s more of an ad.

From Ignis Scientia.

Offering a big, _big_ discount to the first ten people who make reservations.

His eyes widen, everything else around him becoming a blur in the background.

This is the only way he can ever hope to afford one of his tattoos, the only way he can hope to ever meet him, befriend him, maybe even…

He _needs_ this. He needs to secure one of the ten spots, at any cost.

Pelna's voice pulls him out of his daze.

'He's looking at Insta-Boy again!' he cries, getting off the couch and pointing at Gladio dramatically, interrupting the bubbling argument between the other two.

They both stop immediately, choosing to stare at him with a devious grin instead. Gladio considers fighting it, but decides he can get out of it faster if he yields now. He sticks his hand in his back pocket, reaching for his wallet while Crowe grabs the heavy jar filled with loonies, toonies and the occasional $5 bill labeled 'Distracted Asshole Tax' on the shelf behind her.

'I'm throwing in a 10 and calling a break,' he sighs as he stuffs the purple bill in the almost full jar and jumps off the couch, phone tucked against his chest.

'Bathroom break? He must've posted a new selfie,' Crowe snorts, eyebrow cocked, all the insolence in the world in the corner of her lips.

‘No! It’s… shit, I gotta book an appointment _now_ ,’ he mumbles as he scrambles up the stairs

‘Oh shit!’ Prompto squeaks. ‘Don’t send him a winky face!’

He runs up the stair and into the empty kitchen, and taps the DM icon at the top of Ignis’ page. This isn’t the first time he’s opened it, but the first time he has the courage and an actual reason to message him. His heart has no business beating this fast, he thinks as he takes a deep breath to try and calm himself down.

Here goes nothing.

***

Ignis is sitting in the passenger’s seat of Regis’ Audi trying to ignore how reckless Noctis is being behind the wheel when he gets his first messages regarding the promotion. He books the three first appointments without much struggle, except for the one in his stomach when Noctis decides that speeding to catch the yellow light is worth almost getting hit by a bus.

The fourth message is from a username he vaguely recognizes from the likes and kind comments on all of his pictures. He smiles faintly as he opens the conversation.

Gladio_ZB [4:17 pm] _Hey, hi, I was wondering if Ignis still had spots available for the promotion?_

SagefireTattoo [4:18] _I do, yes. Is there a specific time you could stop by the shop next week?_

Gladio_ZB [4:19] _Oh sorry, didn’t realize you actually ran the account yourself!_

Gladio_ZB [4:19] _Do you have a spot on Wednesday?_

SagefireTattoos [4:21] _I am certainly not important enough to have a dedicated Instagram attendant : )_

SagefireTattoos [4:21] _Would 11 on Wednesday be a good time?_

Gladio_ZB [4:23] _Right, I have no idea why I thought that…_

Gladio_ZB [4:23] _Anyway, yeah, 11 is fine!_

SagefireTattoos [4:24] _Excellent, Wednesday at 11 is it. See you then._

Gladio_ZB [4:25] _Awesome, can’t wait to meet you ; )_

Ignis can’t stop the corner of his lips from curling up at the sight of the winking emoticon. This Gladio character has always been a contagious kind of enthusiastic whenever he comments his pictures, and Ignis would be lying if he said he weren’t at least a little bit excited to meet him.

‘What’re you laughing at,’ comes Noctis’ voice, pulling him from his thoughts.

Noctis, who’s driving at full speed on the highway, looking very much at Ignis, and very, very much not in front of him.

‘ _Eyes on the road, Noct, good God!’_ he yelps, pushing Noctis’ face away from him.

He’s excited to meet Gladio, granted Noctis hasn’t killed him by then.

***

 _Well, fuck,_ Gladio thinks as he rereads through his DMs for the millionth time. It usually takes a lot for him to feel embarrassment, but that conversation is a new low for him.

‘Did you get a spot?’ Crowe yells from the basement.

‘How did it go?’ Prompto shouts.

‘You were right, Prom.’ Gladio pauses, then sighs deeply. ‘I sent a winky face…’ he replies, mortified.

He’s happy his friends are entertained, at least, judging from the concert of loud cackles coming from downstairs.

Oh well.

The meeting in person will go better, he swears. He’ll be his usual smooth self by then. He _has_ to be.

He runs a hand across his face, combs back the stray strands of hair falling out of his loose bun, and makes his way back downstairs slowly.

He finds his bandmates standing in a row when he reaches the bottom of the stairs, Crowe in the middle holding the Asshole Tax jar.

‘W-what’s up guys,’ he asks, both eyebrows raised as he tries to make sense of the situation to no avail.

'Gladio,' Crowe begins, expression somber and solemn. 'Because we love your dumb ass, and we know how important Instattoo-Boy is to you, and _also_ because we are aware of how important tattoos are for our branding,' she says, pointing at hers and Pelna’s full sleeves as Prompto cackles and Pelna smiles wisely, 'we've decided to let you have the contents of the Asshole Tax jar to make your first tattoo deposit.'

Gladio looks at the three of them eyes wide open as he tries to stop the wobble in his bottom lip.

‘But… Prom’s new pedal… and Pelna’s amp…’

‘It’s fine, big guy,’ Prompto laughs as the other two nod in agreement. ‘It can wait. Besides, half the jar’s your money anyway.’

Gladio stares at the three of them in disbelief. He can’t believe they’d do this for him, for his silly Instagram crush, for a _tattoo,_ of all things. He isn’t about to cry, nope, not at all.

‘You _guys_ ,’ he finally manages to say, and the fact that his voice quivers and is about 2 octaves higher than normal does _not_ mean he’s about to cry, no way, no sir.

He is getting a tattoo from Ignis Scientia. In less than a week.

As soon as he’s done rolling all those coins, anyway.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are they ever going to meet?  
> Will it be love at first sight??  
> Will Gladio ever find his chill???  
> Find out soon!
> 
> Thank you so so so much for reading! Comments and kudos eternally appreciated! ♥♥
> 
> (Come hang out on [tumblr](http://roadsoftrial.tumblr.com/) and [ffxv tumblr](https://thelegendarynoctgar.tumblr.com/)!!)


	3. Bondings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ignis takes one for the team by partaking in small talk, Gladio ponders what the perfect sexy to meathead ratio is, and Noctis makes a very polarizing executive decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by the delightful and incredibly patient [aliatori](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aliatori/)!

The inauguration of Sagefire Tattoos happens without much fanfare. At Regis’ insistence, Ignis has reluctantly agreed to host a small cocktail party for all of Regis’ investors. Regis spends most of the evening with an apologetic look on his face as he chats them up, freeing Ignis from countless frustrating, pointless conversations. Ignis doesn’t know anyone else present, except for Noctis, who looks distracted and fidgety as he fiddles with his phone the entire evening, betraying a smile every few glances. Ignis has ideas about what’s causing him to smile, but doesn’t push it. It’s heartwarming, somehow, that shy, smitten look on Noctis’ usually impassive face; it makes talking to the few reporters also present asking him generic questions about his background and inspirations, as well as the nosy ones about Nyx and the reasons behind the move that he skillfully dodges, a little more bearable.

He knows he shouldn’t be irritated by the attention and exposure, he knows he needs it, knows it’s part of the game. But he can’t help nurturing the naïve idea that his work should be front and center, that it should be all the marketing he needs. How little time it took for him to book the next three months with nothing more than online word of mouth should be proof of that. All he wants to do is tattoo; he has no time for exchanging pleasantries with rich old men. Regis knows this, tries to make his involvement as sparse as he can whenever possible, but on such occasions such as this one, they need to bite the bullet and power through it. Ignis appreciates the time, effort, and confidence Regis is granting him regardless, which is what keeps him going through this interminable party long after his social fuels have run out for the night.

The company does leave after a while. What was supposed to be a cocktail hour gathering stretched into the evening, and Ignis is more than happy to see them out. He and Noctis stay behind to clean up. They could come back and take care of it in the morning, but Ignis is desperate for some alone time with what will become his second home before long.

It’s a modest parlour, he thinks as he wanders around the shop, much smaller than the one Nyx owns. A small price to pay for a prime downtown location such as this. He gazes at the street still bustling with activity through the large storefront window, wondering if the constant movement of the metropolis will be distracting, he who is so used to working in the half-basement where his old shop was located, hidden away in a maze of isolated alleys. He doesn’t miss it, doesn’t miss the damp air and the lack of light in the winter, not really, but he wonders, still, if this is too big of a step, if it’ll affect his work in some ways.

He leaves the reception area once the place has been sufficiently cleaned up. The mess wasn’t so big to begin with; he wanted an excuse to stay behind more than anything else. He dallies towards his studio space, taking in the light blue walls covered with various decorations he and Noctis unpacked the last time they were there, as Noctis had asked multiple questions about the provenance of each trinket and the artists behind each print and painting, and Ignis had gladly told him all about them, all too happy to see Noctis finally come out of his shell.

He notices Noctis through the open blinds of the tall windows separating the two areas. He is sitting (slumped, really) in Ignis’ large cushioned chair, staring at his phone with the same subdued smile he’s worn all night.

‘Someone’s feeling chipper,’ Ignis teases, leaning in the doorway as Noctis jumps, sitting back up and holding his phone to his chest on reflex.

‘S-sorry, I thought we were done with the cleaning…’

‘No worries,’ he smiles, stepping quietly towards his rolling stool before sitting down and gliding light and fast towards Noctis. ‘I see you and Luna are talking again.’

‘That obvious, huh,’ he says sheepishly. ‘She’s, um, she just got back from Yellowknife, so she finally has cell reception…’

‘I’m glad you two are trying to patch things up, Noct.’

‘Thanks Iggy.’

They fall silent, but it isn’t the same heavy, awkward silence they’ve been paddling through for the past two weeks. Ignis looks at Noctis looking at his phone, and gives in to his impulse, then, because he sees no reason not to.

‘It’s still early. Would you like to have your first lesson?’

‘Really?’ Noctis asks, stuffing his phone in his pocket and staring at Ignis with wide eyes. ‘That’d be awesome!’ he beams.

Ignis smiles as he rolls back to his drawing table, waving at Noctis to join him. Noctis pulls a foldable chair from the closet and settles next to him. They work side by side as Ignis walks him through the process of sketching and making the stencils, giving him all the tips and advice he can think of. The lesson is informal and maybe a bit too casual, but he feels so at ease, so peaceful right then and there, jumping back in familiar waters after weeks of waiting for things to settle down, coaching a surprisingly receptive Noctis, pouring out all the knowledge and skills he’s spent years honing. He feels at home, at last.

It’s 1AM before he knows it. Noctis walks out of the shop with his first tattoo, a delicate crane in flight, the skin of his inner left arm all red and slightly swollen around the dark lines, wrapped snugly in gauze and cling film. Ignis has always been of the mind that hands-on is the best way to learn, albeit a slightly painful one. That’s how Nyx taught him all those years ago, when he first took him in as an apprentice. And regardless of how things ended between them, Ignis will always look back fondly on the colourful ink covering his left arm, on the skin that Nyx used as a blackboard to teach him everything he knows. He intends to do the same with Noctis, if he’ll allow it.

It’s 1AM when they walk back to Noctis’ car, almost 2 when they finally make it home, after Noctis suggested they take the scenic route, after driving around the sleeping city, listening to soft electro-pop songs on Ignis’ phone in a content calm. Ignis falls asleep as soon as his head hits his pillow, and he enjoys his first good night of sleep in weeks.  

***

Gladio wakes up on Wednesday morning at an hour far too early for someone who went to bed as late as he did the night before. Tuesdays are always his busiest day, his shift at the LCBO starting early in the morning, followed by band practice as soon as he gets off work. Sometimes, he’s lucky and gets a ride from Cor when he’s on his way home from office hours at the university. Other days, when Cor can’t be fucked to waste an entire afternoon in his office where no one ever comes anyway, Gladio takes the subway and then a bus to get from downtown Toronto all the way to Mississauga, where Cor lives. Gladio is infinitely thankful that Prompto’s dad lets them dwell (and occasionally practice) in his basement as often as they do (he’s thankful for the million other things he does for them, really), but he’d be more than happy to never have to make that trip through heavy traffic ever again.

Band practice had gone without much fanfare as they’d run through the new setlist in its entirety, tweaking it to assure a fun, smooth experience. They had been ready to call it a night around 8 when Pelna had gotten a call from his friend Libertus, who owns a small dive in Scarborough, asking if they could fill in for a no-show bunch of shady sons of bitches (those had been his exact words) who were supposed to play tonight. They could hardly say no, what with Pelna still in need of a new amp and Prompto still trying to convince them he needed yet another new pedal, so they had hurriedly stuffed all of their instruments and gear in Crowe’s van and driven all the way to the east side of the city to fill in for the 11 o’clock spot. The new setlist had been a hit, it turned out, and they had stayed behind, giddy and somehow full of a newfound energy as Libertus had bought them a round, then three more. They had stayed out far later than someone as tired as Gladio should’ve. Yet here he is, at 8 AM the next morning, nervous and wide awake and already showered, contemplating what to wear for his appointment with Ignis later today.

The thought of what to wear has been on his mind ever since his brief text conversation with Ignis. He is well aware of how ridiculous it is to worry about it _that_ much, and he knows he shouldn’t give it this much thought, knows it doesn’t actually matter, but deep down he can’t help wanting to leave an impression, can’t help foolishly hoping that something more might come out of this. It’s stupid, he knows it’s stupid.

He stands before his bed in his briefs, damp, shoulder-length hair combed to the left revealing one of his shaved sides. On top of his blanket, the entirety of his wardrobe is laid out as he erratically tries to figure out what to wear, what would get the right reaction out of Ignis (though Ignis probably won’t care, though he shouldn’t get his hopes up, though it doesn’t _really_ matter, he knows, he knows). He circles through his impressive collection of band t-shirts with cut-off sleeves, the ones that make him look a little bit rowdy, like just a little bit of a meathead. He wonders if he should just opt for one of his Henley shirts, the ones that he may or may not buy a size too small on purpose, the ones that allow him to show off his build without looking like he’s trying too hard. Or maybe he should just go for one of his tight tank tops, which would reach peak meatheadedness, but would at least make his intentions clear. _Then_ he wonders about pants: blue or black jeans? Skinny or straight or tapered at the hem? Ripped or clean? What about shoes? Well that all depends on the choice of pants, doesn’t it? What about the plugs in his ears, what about accessories? What should he do with his hair? Loose? Combed back or to the side? In a bun? What about—

‘PROMPTO!’ he calls out once he can’t stand torturing himself like this anymore.

He bangs on the adjacent wall when he hears no response.

‘ _Fuck oooooff_ ,’ he eventually hears. But Prompto is standing in his doorframe as soon as he’s done whining, wearing nothing but tight briefs and a t-shirt, glasses on the tip of his nose and blond locks in an tangled disaster on top of his head.

‘You gotta help me out, Prom, I’m freaking out,’ he says, combing his hair back with both hands, turning back towards the spread clothes on his bed.

‘Oh for fuck’s sake, dude,’ he sighs, but he’s immediately at Gladio’s side analyzing the items in front of him with the gravity of someone dealing with a life or death situation.

‘Are we trying to seduce him or just look cool?’ he asks, picking up one of the Henleys and holding it to Gladio’s chest as if he had never seen him wear it before.

‘Bit of both?’ he shrugs. ‘I don’t want it to be too obvious, y’know?’

‘Gotcha,’ he mumbles to himself, throwing the shirt back on the bed, grabbing a gray tank top instead and stuffing it in Gladio’s hands, heading towards Gladio’s closet without a word. He disappears in it for a while before walking out with a black bomber jacket Gladio had forgotten he even had. ‘Hear me out,’ he finally says, serious as all hell. ‘Walk in wearing the jacket, all casual, no biggie, then BAM, front row seat to the gun show when you take it off, because you’re getting a tattoo so you need to wear a tank top so you can show him your arms, right? So you’re showing off but it’s _justified._ And you gotta go with the black jeans, dude. If he doesn’t lose his shit seeing your ass in those, he’s not human.

Gladio laughs, realizing how ridiculous this whole situation is, but appreciative nonetheless of how seriously Prompto is taking his task. That’s why they’re best friends, really: they get each other in the oddest, most useless of ways, sometimes.

‘Thanks, Prom,’ he laughs, slipping an arm around Prompto’s shoulder for a quick side hug. Prompto doesn’t protest, never one to refuse a hug, and gives a few pats on Gladio’s back.

‘Noooo problem,’ he replies, light and easy. ‘So, um, can I go with you?’

‘Why?’

‘Because I want to hang out with my best buddy Gladio?’ he replies hesitantly.

_Because I want to be there to act as a buffer if you freak out and jump the gun,_ is what he really means.

In any case, Prompto being around can’t hurt, so he accepts.

They leave around 10, a bit later than Gladio would’ve liked, but still on schedule. They stop at the convenience store for a healthy breakfast of Red Bull and Cliff bars before heading to the subway. It’s a fairly long ride, during which they hold a very long, thorough and heated debate on which Gorillaz phase was their best, granting themselves annoyed side-eyed glances and heavy sighs from other passengers.

After a useless walk in the wrong direction and an admission from Prompto that he cannot, in fact, easily follow maps, they are standing in front of Sagefire Tattoos at long last. The storefront is modest, easy to miss as the only indication that it’s there is in the small lettering on the front door, in a swirly, vintage font painted in red and gold. He takes a deep breath and pushes the door at last.

A small bell chimes as they walk in. Or so Gladio guesses, because he sees it, but he sure as hell can’t hear it, buried under the crushing sound of Every Time I Die’s latest album blaring from the speakers in each corner of the room. At the left is the reception desk, where a young man with dark hair is sitting, eyes glued to his phone, completely oblivious to Gladio and Prompto’s presence.

Gladio ponders how to best catch his attention when...

‘ _NOCTIS_ ,’ a loud, exasperated voice thunders from the closed door at the back of the shop.

They all start at the sharpness of the voice, the young man’s eyes widening as he turns the music off in a hurry. He notices Gladio and Prompto, then, putting his phone away as he splutters an apology and turns on the computer screen to look at the schedule.

‘Shit, sorry. Um… you’re… Gladio, right? Iggy will be ready in a sec,’ he mutters. He glares at Prompto, then, a questioning look on his face. ‘And you are...’

‘Here for moral support!’ Prompto answers with a warm smile, which Noctis shares soon enough. ‘I’m Prompto! So you’re and ETID fan, huh? The Big Dirty is such a baller, dude, I love th—’

Gladio has already tuned him out when the door at the back opens at last.

And out comes Ignis Scientia.

Everything seems to cease to exist around Gladio as he observes the tall, lean man striding towards him, running a hand through his wavy bangs, combing them out of the way. He’s wearing a tight white shirt that’s buttoned all the way up to his neck, a thin golden chain linking both ends of the collar, delicate and subdued, that should ridiculous, but just _works_ on him. Peeking out of the tight shirt’s collar is the tattoo of two hands circling Ignis’ neck that Gladio has spent entirely too long looking at in the past (fantasizing about, really, hoping it could be his hands there inst— _moving on_ ). His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, revealing the end of the floral sleeve on his right arm, and an intricate, colourful design on his left forearm. He’s so damn beautiful, Gladio takes a hot second to react when Ignis finally talks to him.

‘Gladio, hi. Sorry for the wait,’ Ignis smiles as he extends a hand towards Gladio. Gladio grabs it and shakes it, still in his daze, revelling in the smoothness of Ignis’ accent, lingering with a light squeeze, getting lost for just a touch too long into the green of Ignis’ eyes.

‘Hey, nice to finally meet you,’ he says as he snaps out of it at long last and lets go of Ignis’ hand, a devastating smile (or so he hopes) taking over his face.

‘Shall we go?’ Ignis asks, pointing towards his studio space at the back.

Gladio nods, then hesitates as he turns towards Prompto. He has completely forgotten about his role as moral support, deeply taken in a conversation (more like a monologue, as Noctis clearly struggles to keep up with him, a polite smile on his face regardless) about the state of the post-hardcore music scene. Oh well. He’ll be fine on his own. Probably.

—

‘So… some receptionist you got there,’ Gladio chuckles as he settles into the cushioned chair by Ignis’ desk.

‘Oh, Noctis? He’s my apprentice. He’s only playing receptionist until we can hire someone. And doing a very poor job of it, I’m aware,’ he deadpans, though Gladio notices the curl of his lips when Gladio bursts out laughing.

‘I hope he’s a better as a tattoo artist, then,’ Gladio replies.

‘He is. He will be once I’m done with him,’ Ignis says quietly. Out of anyone else’s mouth, the statement would come off as arrogant, but there’s a rational, calculated confidence to Ignis’ words, one that makes Gladio want to believe him without question.

‘So,’ Ignis continues. ‘What can I do for you today?’

Gladio takes a deep breath as he tries to pry his gaze away from those fucking eyes, those sharp, beautiful, clever eyes.

He needs to get it together, now.

‘I… um, please tell me if it’s stupid but… I’ve been thinking of getting a full-body eagle tattoo for a while. Like, all over my arms and back,’ he says, then pauses. ‘Y’know, it sounds tacky now that I say it out loud,’ he laughs sheepishly, looking at his fingernails with sudden great interest.

Ignis simply smiles in response.

‘It _could_ look tacky,’ he says after torturing Gladio just long enough, ‘easily, at that. But this is _me_ we are talking about.’

‘Oh, fuck, you’re absolutely right, I didn’t mean t—’

‘I kid, I kid. I’m interested. However, I don't usually do such large and visible pieces as a first tattoo, so I’m hesitant.’

'If it helps make up your mind, it... um, it wouldn’t be my first tattoo...'

‘Oh?’

Under Ignis' inquisitive stare, Gladio stalls for a second, not so sure he wants to go through with this story, but carries on regardless.

'It's... I was very young. And not exactly sober when I decided to get it,’ he says with a nervous chuckle as Ignis nods and does a very poor job of hiding his grin behind his fist.

'It's... a shield,' he continues.

'May I see it?

'Heh, it's... it’s in a spot I don't usually show it until the second date, you know?' Gladio says, somewhere between coy and amused.

'Ah, inebriated ass tattoo, a classic,' Ignis chuckles.

‘Right on.’

'If I may, why a shield?'

'Drunken me really likes the Tudors apparently.'

Ignis full on laughs at that, free and crystal clear, and Gladio isn’t quite sure why it messes with him so much, but he needs to hear again if it's the last thing he ever does.

'Drunken you is a bit of a history buff I see.'

'Drunken me had a crush on Jonathan Rhys Meyers, more like.'

And there's that laugh again, genuine and unguarded and driving Gladio nearly insane.

'I can't say I blame you,' he says at last, a shy smile lingering on his lips as his walls are carefully built back after being torn down all too easily.

(Gladio makes it his personal mission to take them down again, hopefully for good.)

'Listen, Gladio,' (and why is the simple fact that he's saying his name making his heart beat so damn fast?) In normal circumstances, I would turn you down. But I have to say, I’ve been itching to work on a longer project, and you seem like good company, so exceptionally, for you I will say fuck it and go for it.’

'Really?' Gladio replies eagerly. 'Um, I mean, awesome!' he smiles, warm and wide and causing Ignis to look away and comb his hair back with not so steady hands, or so Gladio would like to believe.

‘This is a big endeavour,’ he continues, back to his cool and collected self in no time. ‘It will take many sessions and it won’t be cheap, despite the discount you’re making me regret giving out.’

‘Hey, you should’ve known this would happen, man,’ Gladio laughs. ‘But I’m all in if you are.’

And so they spend the next hour going through Ignis' portfolio for ideas and inspiration. Gladio is as taken by the intricate, undoubtedly _Ignis_ quality of what they’re doing, revelling in the way Ignis perks up when he finds a design he’d like to try, a pattern he thinks would fit Gladio. They bounce ideas off each other like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like they’ve been doing it for years, and Gladio would find it disconcerting if he didn't find it so enjoyable.

They finally settle on a design, and Ignis makes him take off his shirt and spends some time sketching on his arms and chest and back with a blue marker, trying to peg for size and shape in preparation for the actual stencils, and Gladio hopes he doesn't notice how his skin rises at his touch, how hard his heart is beating, how his pupils widen as he focuses on the deft touches against his arm, on how beautiful Ignis is as he becomes lost in thought, concentrated on his work and shutting out everything else. Ignis' fingers are light and precise against his skin, the marker running quick and easy, leaving behind long, detailed feathers that wrap around his arms and back.

They stand together in front of the large mirror on the right wall of the room so Ignis can show him what he’s planning to do. Even in this state, even though it’s only a rough draft in thick marker lines, it’s a sight to behold. It looks right, it feels right, and Gladio becomes overwhelmed by excitement as he pictures what the final thing will look like, at the thought of spending all this time alone with Ignis, of talking to him, getting to know him through and through (or so he hopes, at least). He can’t wait to get started, nodding eagerly as Ignis asks for his phone number so he can text him pictures of the stencils later today, adding offhandedly that it would normally take longer, but that he’s antsy to start working on it, and that knowledge sets off fireworks in the pit of Gladio’s stomach (though he’s probably just saying that, though he probably doesn’t mean anything by it).  

They finally leave the studio space after an hour and a half, only to find Prompto sitting with his legs crossed on top of the reception desk as he and Noctis go through what appears to be a thick sketchbook, Noctis’, it seems.

‘Ready to go, Prom,’ Gladio interrupts as Prompto turns around, a guilty look on his face as he remembers what he was initially here for.

‘Oh hey big guy,’ he smiles sheepishly. ‘Ready in a sec!’

‘Oh Iggy,’ Noctis chimes in as Prompto gets off the desk. ‘I told Prompto I could tattoo him for free so I can practice on him, that’s ok right?’

The death glare Ignis throws at Noctis sends shivers down Gladio’s spine. Yet, Noctis awaits his answer, unfazed. Gladio wishes he could have this kind of resolve in front of such murderous eyes.

‘ _Fine,_ ’ Ignis hisses, clenching his jaw, because deep down, it’s not such a bad idea. ‘This is why I drink,’ he mutters under his breath, pulling a snort from Gladio. Ignis smiles at that.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will they ever stop flirting?  
> Will Gladio ever sleep again??  
> How ugly will Prompto's tattoos turn out to be???  
> Find out soon!
> 
> Many thanks for all the support, kind comments and kudos, each of them is unbelievably appreciated! ♥♥♥♥
> 
> (Many thanks to the lovely [Ixia](https://wildixia.tumblr.com/) for letting me borrow her wonderful [tattooed Ignis design](https://wildixia.tumblr.com/post/170625301095/tattoos-piercings-vibrant-color-and-our-birthday) in this AU!)
> 
> (Come scream with me on [tumblr](http://roadsoftrial.tumblr.com/) and [ffxv tumblr](https://thelegendarynoctgar.tumblr.com/)!)


	4. Seconds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ignis has lots of opinions about Toronto, Gladio is a big tough guy who ain't afraid of no needles, and Prompto's dad is a bit of a (lovable) jerk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Beta'd by the most wonderful, the delightful, the impeccable [Aliatori](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aliatori)!)

‘Iggy?’

Ignis starts at the question. He turns toward Noctis, almost indignant, then softens his gaze as soon as he remembers what they were supposed to be doing before he started daydreaming.

Daydreaming about Gladio.

Tall, sturdy, strong, beautiful Gladio.

It had taken a lot of resolve to keep his mind from wandering, let alone his hands, as Gladio had sat there at his mercy, shirt off, eyes focused, in awe (that’s what it looked like, at least) as they followed the movement of Ignis’ hands against his skin.

There had been _something_ there, something more than pleasantries and tame banter, something more than the awkward politeness of two people meeting for the first time. It wasn’t only looks, either (though it certainly did not hurt).

There had been _something_ , he could feel it, almost touch it, and it was killing him that it was there in the first place.

It had been foolish of him to accept to work on such a large piece, but that smile, that confidence, those wide, warm golden eyes… He hadn’t been able to say no, hadn’t been able to try and convince him to get something smaller, cheaper. Maybe, just maybe, he had accepted because it meant he’d get to see him again, that he would have to come back in for multiple sessions, take off his shirt and lie down and…

He feels stupid. So, so stupid.

He’d lose money over this, he was convinced, but there it was. He had made his bed, and now he had to lie in it, angry phone calls from the accountant be damned.

He shakes his head discreetly, a useless attempt to shoo the image out of his head. He chooses to focus on Noctis instead, still waiting for feedback on his stencil work.

‘Your hand is too heavy, Noct. The lines are meant to be delicate, merely a guideline, see?’ he says as he shows his own paper, where his own feathers lay, long and thin, the outline a faint purple line on the sheet.

‘Huh,’ he says, furrowing his brow, pushing the thin pieces of paper away so he doesn’t have to see them anymore, one step away from crumbling them.

 ‘You won’t get everything right the first try, Noct,’ he says in a tone he hopes is encouraging (but he’s never been too good at that, now, has he?). ‘Keep going.’

‘…Takin’ a break,’ he mumbles instead of accepting the critique for what it was, getting off his chair and walking towards the backroom with crossed arms, a shuddery sigh and dragging steps.

Ignis sighs as well, takes his glasses off and runs daggers-covered fingers over his eyelids, a welcome pressure for his fatigued eyes. It’s been a long day for both of them, the sharp light of his desk lamp doing little to dull his budding headache. But he’s set on finishing Gladio’s stencils tonight.

He doesn’t technically need to rush like this. He usually gives himself some time, from a few days to a week, before reporting back.

But maybe, just maybe he likes that it gives him a reason to text Gladio so soon.

Maybe, just maybe he’s being a massive idiot.

He reluctantly gets up to join Noctis in the backroom, where he grabs two cans of Red Bull from the old fridge in the corner, using one to poke Noctis in the ass cheek, hoping to get him to unbury his face from the couch where he’s decided to spread himself in lamentation.

‘Now, now. What’s the matter?’

‘I’m _shit_ is the matter,’ Noctis groans, voice still muffled by the cloth cushion.

‘Please sit up?’ he asks as he nonchalantly pushes Noctis’ legs away, almost making him roll off the couch, so he can sit next to him.

Slowly, very slowly, Noctis pulls himself up, face in an almost endearing pout as he crosses his arms against his chest and carefully avoids Ignis’ gaze. Ignis hands him the thin blue can without a word, which Noctis accepts without really thinking about it.

‘You’re aware that tattooing isn’t easy, yes?’

‘ _You’re_ not having any trouble.’

Ignis squints at him, hoping for more, for something smarter than that to follow.

‘Noct… I’ve been doing this every single day for the past 7 years, of _course_ I’m not having any trouble, you prat.’

Noctis looks offended for all of two seconds before finally relaxing, flopping back into the couch with an embarrassed chuckle.

‘Ugh, sorry. I know you’re right, I’m just… y’know.’

‘You think you’ve failed if you’re not amazing at whatever you try right away.’

‘I _guess._ ’

‘You need to give yourself a chance, Noct.’

‘Were you like that too when you started?’

‘Nope. I tattooed the fucking Mona Lisa on my first try,’ he deadpans.

‘Shut up,’ Noctis cracks up at last, shoving his shoulder into Ignis’.

‘Now, shall we go back?’ Ignis offers as he gets off the couch, cracking his own energy drink open.

‘Yeah, yeah. Be there in a sec.’

Ignis gets up and returns to his drawing table, taking a moment to stretch his back and arms thoroughly—and to indulge in a filthy knuckle crack—before sitting back down on his stool and putting his glasses back on his nose.

He grabs his phone and sticks the earplugs dangling from it into his ears. He could use the speaker systems Noctis spent so much time installing, but he’s always preferred listening to music this way, to get lost into his own head as he draws. It had always driven Nyx crazy, as he would constantly try to talk to him only to be made a Spotify widow every single time. Ignis figured he’d had learned over time. But Nyx is nothing if not stubborn.

Well, that’s not an issue anymore, at least.

Noctis joins him about ten minutes later, puts on his own headphones and gets back to work next to Ignis. They draw alone together, Noctis working at a slower pace than before, more careful this time around, occasionally nudging Ignis’ arm to show him his progress, to make sure he’s in the right track. Ignis has little to say about it this time, simply nodding in approval each time, with a few corrections here and there.

It’s… nice.

Nice is what they both need. After the hectic pace of the past few weeks, this peaceful evening with nothing but ink and paper and soothing music in his ears is a small blessing.

They finish two hours later, at half past 10. Ignis quickly takes pictures of the stencils as he always does and sends them to Gladio. He thinks of typing a more playful text than the all-business default paragraph he always uses, but decides against it. He’s gone down from his high a touch now that he’s been able to think clearly.

It was probably all in his head.

He thinks about it, staring at the unsent text, then quickly types a smiley face, then erases it, then types it again, hits sends and shuts the screen off before he has time to feel stupid about it.

‘Hey you know that guy from this morning, Prompto?’ Noctis asks as he watches Ignis set the alarm system for the night.

‘The one to who you promised very expensive tattoos for free?’ Ignis asks, cocking an eyebrow without removing his eyes from the keypad. ‘Yes, I remember.’

‘Right. Well, he’s in a band. They’re opening for some guys at the Horseshoe next week. Wanna go check it out?’

‘I don’t know Noct… I’m getting a bit old for this entire _going out_ scene.’

‘…You’re 25.’

‘So, so old.’

‘C’mon,’ Noctis chuckles, ‘it’ll be fun. Plus Gladio’s in the band too.’

He stops dead in his tracks.

‘… I don’t see how that’s supposed to convince me.’

Noctis stops too, turns around to face him, a puzzled look on his face.

‘Because you like him?’ he says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Ignis has so many questions _. How the fuck does he know_ is at the top of the list.

‘You just acted… different around him. I dunno,’ he shrugs as he steps away to find the car.

Well, _fuck._

***

‘Son of a b—’

The words escape before Gladio can stop them. Getting a tattoo is, it turns out, a lot more painful than he’d remembered. Or maybe it’s because he’s sober, this time around, he’s not quite sure. He’s learning it the hard way as Ignis mercilessly runs the needle across his skin, as unforgiving as he had been gentle, almost affectionate, when laying down the stencils on his arm a few minutes ago.

‘Please, I told you what to expect,’ Ignis mocks with a playful exasperation in his voice as he very much does not stop stabbing Gladio in the arm with a needle.

‘I know, I know,’ Gladio laughs, face still clenched from the unexpected pain.

‘I can stop if you want. No one has to know,’ Ignis taunts, and Gladio isn’t quite sure whether he really saw him wink or not, but he sure as hell isn’t about to quit. Not after he spent all afternoon after their first meeting staring at the lingering marks on his arm, taking in every bit of detail, not after he spent the rest of the following days completely distracted by the text Ignis had sent him along with the pictures of his stencils, wondering if there was a hidden meaning behind the words _Here’s a preview for you, see you next week_ , behind that smiley face he had added at the end, like an afterthought he had maybe, possibly (hopefully) debated adding for a touch longer than necessary. And most importantly, not after he had already dropped over four hundred dollars on his down payment.

‘I’m good. Plus, the kid’s gotta learn, right?’ Gladio says, nodding at Noctis standing close behind Ignis, lost in thoughts as he watches Ignis’ hands go.

‘I’m not a k—'

‘Oh, I only needed him for the stencils,’ Ignis interrupts. ‘You may go tend to the front desk now, Noct,’ he continues, waving a dismissive hand without even looking at him.

Noctis glares as he tries (and fails) to find a snippy retort to put Ignis in his place. He crosses his arms and glares even harder instead.

‘Get a receptionist,’ he mumbles before finally turning on his heels and walking towards the door, slamming it shut behind him. Minutes later, they hear loud rock music bursting out of the reception area’s speakers, thankfully muted by the closed door.

‘Did… um, did you two fight or somethin’?’ Gladio asks cautiously, to which Ignis simply laughs.

‘Of course not. He wanted to watch, but we do need someone to greet visitors. Besides, he knows we’re staying late just for that purpose tonight. He’s being dramatic, don’t mind him.’

Gladio chuckles at that. Ignis looks like he knows what he’s talking about, so he doesn’t press it further.

Despite the sharp, burning pain on his forearm, the first hour passes by in a flash.

The conversation stays afloat the entire time as Gladio answers Ignis’ questions about himself, about what he does for a living, featuring an explanation of what the LCBO is, much to Ignis’ baffled delight, as he had been buying cheap wine from the grocery store this entire time, unable to figure out where the _good shit_ was hidden. Gladio tells him about his band, carefully avoiding what their name is, not quite ready to out himself as the huge dork that he is just yet ( _‘It’s a Final Fantasy reference, and that’s as far as I’m willing to go,’_ he had said as Ignis had snorted with a fond smile on his lips that had disappeared as quickly as it had appeared). They then switch things around later on, as Gladio asks Ignis about life in Canada, to which Ignis shares his thoroughly crafted opinions on bagged milk, Toronto traffic, and the Maple Leafs (‘ _Does this city love its team or not?! I don’t understand!’_ he had cried as Gladio had laughed heartily, not even sure where to even begin with that mess).

It’s been two hours before they know it, Ignis having just reached Gladio’s bicep when they decide a break is in order.

It’s nice. It’s really, really nice, Gladio thinks, feeling a tinge of relief that their connection from their last meeting hadn’t been a fluke, hadn’t been just wishful thinking on his part. Talking with Ignis is so easy, so comfortable, almost comfortable enough to forget the searing pain in his forearm. They talk without restraint, walking a tasteful line between friendly and flirty. Gladio had had his doubts at first, but it’s so obvious, this time around, how Ignis will subtly compliment him, tucked between two friendly insults, how Ignis will chuckle (but it’s not the laughter from last time, _never_ that laughter, much to Gladio’s chagrin), almost flustered but too proud to let it show, when Gladio does the same. It isn’t much, but it’s barely bearable all at the same time.

When Noctis comes knocking asking if he can order food, Ignis offers to buy him lunch without hesitation, and Gladio wonders if he does that with all his clients, but decides to simply thank him and make a mental note to reciprocate the first chance he gets instead.

Noctis walks in with bags of food not long after, in a far better mood than when he had left the room earlier that morning. He sits with them as they all eat, proudly showing off the ‘tutorial sleeve’ (his words) slowly taking shape on his left arm as Ignis quietly, but passionately explains his teaching process to a fascinated Gladio. Noctis leaves before long, and they are back at it.

When Ignis mentions his old shop over the course of the conversation, Gladio finally gathers the courage to ask the question that’s been on his mind for weeks now:

'So, um… if it’s ok to ask, what made you decide to leave?'

'Ah,' Ignis chuckles, 'New challenges and whatnot.'

Gladio raises an eyebrow in Ignis' direction then closes his eyes with a discreet wince as Ignis hits a particularly sensitive spot.

'So I only get the diplomatic answer, huh?'

Ignis laughs again, with a bit more heart, this time.

'You’ll need to buy me a few drinks before you get the real answer,' he taunts, a faint grin at the corner of his lips. Gladio opens his eyes again, staring at him for a long time. But the obstinate fucker refuses to indulge him, eyes glued to Gladio's arm as if he hadn’t just flung the door wide open to the idea of going out for drinks, on a date, even, or—

'I'll keep that in mind,' he simply says before he lets his mind wander any longer, noticing how Ignis’ smile lingers before closing his eyes again.

‘I think that will be it for today,’ Ignis says another two hours later as he rolls away from Gladio at last to stretch his arms and back with a soft groan, then gets up to grab something from the shelf.

He comes back a minute later with a bottle of antiseptic and a roll of gauze in his hand. He disinfects the entirety of Gladio’s arm, his touch light and something that resembles comforting, though Gladio isn’t quite sure that’s his intent. He basks in it regardless, observing Ignis the entire time; Ignis who doesn’t even seem to notice, who appears lost in thought and wonder, his hand roams across the slightly swollen feathers stretching across Gladio’s arm, meticulously examining his work, cleaning the outline like it’s the only thing that matters in the universe. He then spreads small pieces of gauze all across his arm, gently applying medical tape to hold everything in place, and finally covers the whole thing in plastic wrap.

Gladio isn’t sure whether he feels relief or disappointment when Ignis finally lets go, a tension he hadn’t realized was there lifting at last, but he finds himself missing the touch almost instantly. Ignis finally comes out of his own thoughts with a small shake of the head, the fond look on his face disappearing as soon as Gladio catches a glimpse of it. He steps back and explains how to care for the tattoo as he hands him a sheet containing the same information. He then excuses himself and leaves the room. Gladio isn’t quite sure why but doesn’t press it.

The moment is over. And it _was_ a moment, Gladio is certain of it. He’s disappointed it’s gone, almost as much as he’s ecstatic that it happened in the first place.

‘Oh, for your information,’ Ignis says as he comes back in the room, ‘it _will_ be itchy. You are _not_ allowed to scratch it, I cannot emphasize this enough,’ he continues, a devious smile on his face as he hands Gladio a small jar of lotion. ‘On the house,’ he adds, but it really looks and sounds like a _you’ll need it, you poor fuck_.

***

 

Gladio could not have possibly anticipated just how itchy Ignis had meant.

Your arm will be _fucking_ itchy, is what Ignis should’ve said. _Unbearably_ itchy. _Excruciatingly_ itchy.

But it’s still not quite itchy enough to throw off his rhythm (few things can, that’s one of the things he’s never been shy bragging about), but just enough to distract him from the fact that Prompto’s hands are off the keyboard and waving at him to stop.

‘Dude, focus,’ Prompto snaps.

‘Sorry, sorry. Arm’s distracting.’

‘Should we call it off for today?’ Prompto asks, with a tinge of hope in his voice, cooling off from his outburst immediately. He’s usually always down for impromptu jam sessions, but his week at work has been unbelievably busy, the entire GTA having apparently decided all their instruments needed the most impossible of repairs all at the same time, and he’d much rather be at home sleeping than in fucking Mississauga scrambling through songs they haven’t touched in weeks (months, really) with no end in sight.

Gladio turns down the offer of a blessed night off with a shake of the head, tempted as he might be to just drop it and go home. They could use the rest for sure, but they need this practice even more.

They need it because Prompto had called him seconds after he had laid down for a quick late-afternoon nap to let him know he had scored them a last-minute wedding contract almost by accident. Prompto had been sent to a reception hall to tune their grand piano and had ‘overheard’ a couple and their wedding planner (he was eavesdropping, really) bemoan the fact that their band had just cancelled on them. Prompto had swooped in and secured the contract.

It had been easy, so easy.

That was before Prompto had remembered he hadn’t so much as touched his keyboard in almost three months.

With the Zodiac Braves gaining momentum, they had been spending most of their free time honing the sound they’d all agreed worked best for the four of them, and Gladio and Prompto’s moonlighting act as a jazz duo has been pushed on the back burner a bit, favouring precise pop-rock beats to the free, flowy sound they’d first bonded over, all those years ago.

‘Well I’m taking a break, Prompto says before throwing himself onto the couch and letting out the most inhuman groan/moan/sigh Gladio has ever heard.

‘You ok there, buddy?’ Gladio asks tentatively, because he can pretty much guess the answer.

‘Eh. I just…’ he starts, turning on his back and slipping his fingers under his glasses to rub his eyes, ‘I want to not be just a part-time musician? Y’know? I’m just… ready for our big break.’

‘I hear ya,’ Gladio chuckles, putting his sticks down onto the snare drum and getting up to stretch. ‘We’re almost there, you know we are.’

‘Do I?!’ he asks as he sits back up, indignant but already looking less tense. ‘This just… sucks. I love working at the shop, but _fuck_ dude, that’s not where my energy should be going, y’know?’

‘I know, Prom,’ he sighs, because there isn’t much else he can say.

He feels this in his bones, he really does. Instead of coming up with empty encouragements they both know he doesn’t really mean, Gladio stays silent as he paces the room and continues to stretch his arms and wrists, half because they’re sore, half to distract himself from the persistent itch on his arm.

‘Anyway, how did things go with Ignis?’ Prompto finally asks, because he surprisingly hadn’t yet. 

Gladio had been expecting the question, but he’s still not quite sure what his answer is. His surefire impression from earlier had dwindled the more he had thought about the time he had spent with Ignis that morning. Had they flirted the entire time? Of course (or at least, Gladio had, and Ignis had seemed more than willing to return the favour). But he couldn’t shake the shadow of uncertainty, couldn’t help doubting himself when he remembered the barely perceivable hesitation on Ignis’ behalf every time he was beginning to loosen up, every time he laughed, with that guarded laughter that had nothing to do with what Gladio had managed to pull out of him the first time they had met. Ignis seemed to be testing the waters with the tip of his toes, like he was afraid something was in there waiting to bite him. He couldn’t exactly blame him, either. They barely know each other, after all.

Then he remembers the looks and the touches, the softness, the kindness they contained, and he was even less sure what to think.

‘It went… I _think_ it went really well,’ he finally says.

‘You don’t sound like it did,’ Prompto laughs.

‘I mean, it did. I think I just… I don’t know, it’s like one second he was in, then out the next.’ He pauses. ‘I was expecting too much, I guess?’ he chuckles. ‘Maybe he was just being polite and I’m reading too much into it. I don’t know.’

But he doesn’t mean that, not even a little bit, as arrogant as that makes him. He’s worked at the LCBO long enough to recognize a customer service attitude when he sees one, and the way Ignis had acted with him had had nothing to do with that.

‘I don’t know, man,’ Prompto finally says. ‘He doesn’t seem like the kind to bother with being polite,’ he continues as if reading his mind. ‘Plus, he’s totally into you, what with that smiley face when he texted you?’

‘That doesn’t mean shit, Prom, c’mon.’

I’m just saying. I think you just need to give it time, dude.’

‘Yeah, I think you’re right,’ Gladio sighs.

He shouldn’t rush into anything, that much is true. He’ll have plenty of time to talk with Ignis again, plenty of time to crack that shell, to gently reel him in and prove that the water’s more than fine.

The two of them sit in silence for a hot minute until they’re finally pulled out of their thoughts by the sound of the front door lock.

‘Hey Dad, we’re here!’ Prompto yells when he hears the door shut.

There’s no response, only the sound of Cor taking his sweet time taking off his boots, dropping his cello case and bag in his bedroom, and slowly making his way to the basement.

‘Oh. It’s just the two of you,’ he deadpans.

‘We got a wedding gig,’ Prompto replies, answering the question Cor didn’t actually ask.

‘ _Oh,’_ he simply responds, and the look in his eyes gives Gladio vivid flashbacks of the countless hours he spent in this very basement getting roasted by Cor as he tried to master the more complex drum patterns he’d been asked to work on. It had worked in the end, and Gladio had come out of it a much stronger, tighter drummer, but _god_ , at what _cost_?

He stands there, expecting something, barely nodding towards the keyboard when they don’t get moving.

They all know what he expects. Prompto gets up first with a groan fit for an 80-years-old man, sits back behind the expensive Nord keyboard his father has never allowed out of the house, no matter how hard Prompto had begged. ( _‘I didn’t spend 3 years trying to adopt your ass just so you can carry my gear around shitty Malvern bars and get stabbed to death by some crackhead. It stays here,’_ he had said, many years ago, with the straightest face in the world, as Prompto had broken into a fit of laughter and accepted defeat while Gladio had stared in shock).

Gladio follows with a sigh, scratching his scalp so that he doesn’t scratch that _fucking_ itchy arm of his. He sits behind his drums and they are off. Gladio’s focus isn’t quite there, his tiredness starting to get the best of him as they go through the first song of their set, a jazz arrangement of the greatest hits from Grease (the bride’s request, nothing they’d normally touch with a ten-foot pole). It’s far from perfect, but it’s acceptable per Gladio’s standards.

Cor stares slowly at the two of them as Prompto’s hands lift off the keyboard and onto his lap and Gladio mutes the ride cymbal with his fingers. Cor stares and says nothing, and they both await the scathing criticism he’s become famous for dishing out, and that Gladio still has never gotten used to, after all these years.

‘Well,’ he says at last. ‘I… Good luck,’ he snorts and leaves the basement.

When even Cor can't come up with a remark snarky enough, they realize just how thoroughly fucked they really are.

They won’t make it home anytime soon.

***

Ignis’ phone goes off after he’s been waiting next to the Horseshoe for at least thirty minutes.

Noctis [9:42] _Smth came up_

Noctis [9:42] _Cant make it_

Noctis [9:43] _Ill bring you coffee tmrw [peace sign]_

Damn bloody fucking right he will.

Ignis stuffs his phone back in his pocket with a sigh. He had decided to come at Noctis’ insistence, to make him happy more than anything else. This is a bother.

It’s not that he isn’t deeply—tremendously—ridiculously—curious to hear Gladio’s band, to see Gladio in his element, especially after he had talked so passionately about it during their first session earlier that week. He just worries that _he_ might be seen there, that Gladio in particular might spot him in the crowd and think there might be something wrong with him, that he’s obsessed with Gladio, or something equally mortifying. He hadn’t told Ignis about the show, after all. Does it mean he didn’t want him there? Prompto had had no issue telling Noctis about it, so why hadn’t Gladio—

He stops himself right there. There’s no use heading down this road, not when he’s already paid to be in here. The lights are dim and the place is packed. There’s no way that Gladio will be able to see him in this crowd.

He shakes it off and heads inside, snorting when he sees the poster for the event, displaying the mysterious name Gladio had so adamantly tried to keep from him. Little does Gladio know, The Zodiac Braves had picked their name out of one of his favourite games. Maybe he’d show Gladio his tribute tattoo, one day, if he ever feels bold enough. His makes his way to the bar and orders a gin and tonic, then finds a standing spot close to the stage, but not so close that he can easily be seen, just in case. He spends a good twenty minutes sipping on his drink and catching up on emails on his phone, not quite in the mood to mingle, the loud background music and the bustling of the crowd slowly but steadily filling up the front of the stage, making him feel the tiniest bit uneasy. It’s a small blessing when the lights finally go out everywhere except on the stage, turning everyone’s attention towards it as scattered shouts can be heard amongst the crowd.

Nothing happens for a hot second, until a tall woman runs from right stage to the roaring sound of an electric guitar Ignis can’t see just yet. She is tall and imposing and glorious, her long, dark hair cascading onto her naked shoulders, and Ignis can’t help but admire the two full sleeves of tattoos that creep all over her shoulders and back, which she rocks to perfection. A bright, mischievous smile takes over her lips as she yells with her hands in the air to rev up the crowd.

It works beautifully, the audience roaring in response, and it dawns on Ignis that this band he had assumed was a bunch of amateurs might be a bigger deal than he had expected, either because he’s a pessimistic ass, or because Gladio had greatly downplayed how popular they really are. It’s a pleasant surprise nonetheless, and he lets himself loosen up a bit along with the rest of the excited crowd. That’s when the other bandmembers make their entrance, with Prompto jumping up and down, nonchalantly playing a series of chords as he points to the crowd, who drink his energy up and grow even louder. The bass player discreetly walks behind him without making any waves, and Ignis’ eyes finally find Gladio as he’s slipped in through the back, settling down behind his drumset.

It’s like his heart stops. It’s like he’s surrounded by glass, all of a sudden, in a tunnel, unable to see or hear anything other than the stunning man before his eyes.

Every time he had seen Gladio so far, his hair had been tied in a loose bun on top of his head. It’s the first time he sees it loose, and _god,_ what a sight. Long, brown waves reach just a bit above his shoulders, combed to the side, hiding some of his closely trimmed beard, and that _smile,_ that _fucking smile._

Ignis can’t take his eyes off Gladio, pushes himself towards the stage, entirely forgetting he’s not supposed to let Gladio see him. He’s hypnotised as Gladio shouts the rhythm and the band is off.

The song is fast and complex, and _catchy,_ enough so that he would only need a few more drinks to start dancing. He stares at the far-left side of the stage, at Gladio in his black tank top, the slightest bit sweaty, his cheeks red from the heat of the spotlights, as he pounds intricate beats and patterns in a perfect rhythm, completely relaxed and lost in the song, basking in the sound of the crowd, the bright lights, the heath, the raw spirit emanating fromt the entire room.

Ignis would be overwhelmed if he weren’t so entranced, so taken by everything taking place before his eyes: by the sheer power oozing from that stunning siren of a lead singer’s lungs, bright, scorching and haunting all at once; by the pure energy emanating from Prompto’s presence alone as he dances around one second, provides vocals that fall in a perfect harmony of tones and sounds with the lead singer’s the next; by the thundering sound of the drums meddling with the bass, from the mesmerising behemoth of a man creating those syncopated rhythms, from the strength in his entire body, the way he moves, so clearly in his element, swallowed whole by the pure power of the music they’re creating, the untainted, unreserved pleasure he obviously gains from being onstage.

Ignis can’t keep his eyes off Gladio, the sight taking over all his other senses, like he’s being reeled in with no intention of fighting it. It’s taken over all of him, and he’s not sure what _it_ is, but it is _good._ He feels it creep around his throat like he’s being choked, slowly, so slowly, so soft and gentle, the kind of choking that leaves you wanting more of the burn and less of the air because the pain is just _that_ enticing, the kind that hurts just right, just enough to leave you gasping and empty and in need of more. It’s terrible and perfect, it hurts and soothes and he shouldn’t need it but he does, and he shouldn’t lust after a man he can’t have, but his entire being is telling him to dive in anyway.

The song ends before Ignis realises it. He shakes his head, eyes wide and bewildered, still locked on Gladio. He’s somehow ended up right in front of the stage in this strange haze he’s just woken from, right in front of Gladio. And that’s when he sees Gladio. That’s when he sees Gladio seeing him, squinting in his direction as if he’s not quite sure, sees the boastful grin and the arched eyebrow as he _does_ recognize Ignis.

Coming here had been a mistake.

He had been trying, really trying, to remain impervious to Gladio’s charms, and had done a pretty terrible job so far, so of course he had to waltz into Gladio’s lair like this, where he now knows for sure he won’t be able to escape without a fight he doesn’t exactly want to put up.

Ignis turns around as the second song starts, snakes his way through the tight crowd, and leaves the bar before he has time to change his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will Gladio cave and scratch his arm?  
> Will Ignis be able to find his way home??  
> Will Prompto remember how to play the piano before he embarrasses himself in public???  
> Will Noctis ever stop being such a diva????
> 
> Find out soon!


	5. Vices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ignis rides shotgun, Gladio rides _shotgun_ and Noctis risks two lives to save one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta'd by the sublime [aliatori](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aliatori/)!

Fuck.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck.

Ignis fucked up. He fucked up—entirely, undoubtedly, unequivocally fucked up.

He shouldn’t have been there in the first place, shouldn’t have gotten so close, shouldn’t have _left_ when the culmination of his fuck ups had betrayed his presence to the absolute last witness he could’ve wished for.

He has no one to blame but himself, really. He can’t even blame Noct for talking him into going to see Gladio’s band play. He’s made the decision to cross this self-imposed Rubicon all on his own, and this is nothing more than karma catching up to him at long last. He’s been too lucky lately, too carefree, for him not to expect the other shoe to drop at some point.

He takes a minute to breathe once he’s a few blocks away from the bar, looking behind him to make sure no one’s followed him, berating himself for even considering something like that could be a possibility. He wonders briefly if Gladio would’ve ran after him, had he not been busy onstage, wonders if Gladio even thinks of him as something more than some poor bloke he has to put up with every few weeks in exchange for a nice discounted tattoo.

(He’s aware he’s being unfair to both himself and Gladio, but can’t bring himself to think rationally of anyone or anything in this very moment.)

This had been a severe lapse in judgement on his part, a reminder to know his limits and to stick to them. He should’ve never come here, should’ve never shown Gladio the barest hint that he may have possibly, maybe, been the slightest bit interested in him. He’s playing a dangerous game, one that can’t end well for either of them.

(But that’s just what he does, isn’t it? He thinks and doesn’t act, and when he does act, he burns everything to the ground so thoroughly that there are no pieces left to pick up.)

He starts walking again, slowly this time (more like wandering), keeping an eye out for a subway station, unwilling to call Noctis or pay for a cab. He decides to officialise this night of lapses in judgement as he enters a convenience store and buys a pack of Rooftops and a matchbox (a lighter would be admitting defeat), his first one since Nyx made him stop a little less than a year ago. He takes a cigarette out of the pack, hangs it on the corner of his lips, lights one of the matches and lifts it to the thin stick dangling from his mouth with a familiarity he didn’t know he still had in him. He takes one long drag, then breathes it out as the old rush of nicotine courses through his entire body. And fuck, he’d missed this, missed the calming effect it’s always had on him. He’d feel guilty, but there’s no one around to lecture him about it, and he’d kindly tell them to fuck off even if they did.

He finds a subway station at last, stands close to the entrance as he finishes his second cigarette, feeling the cold night wind against his skin, a soothing sensation he wasn’t aware he needed. His phone buzzes in his pocket then, and he slowly drags it out, fearing (hoping) it might be Gladio checking up on him (though why would he? Why should he care?).

Noctis [11:03 PM] _how was it?_

Noctis [11:04] _if you need a ride lmk_

Ignis has no business feeling disappointed (if anything, he should be the one texting Gladio with an apology), should be glad that Noctis is making this meagre effort at a repayment for ditching him, but he still chooses not to respond

Noctis’s guilt coffee better be good, he thinks as he flicks the butt of his cigarette onto the curb and walks down the subway stairs. And hopefully, Gladio will have forgotten all about this by the time his next session comes around.

***

It’s nearly two in the morning when Gladio turns his phone down against the bar for at least the 30th time that night. He’s certain that was Ignis he’s spotted in front of the stage. Ignis who had all but panicked as their eyes had met, like a trapped prey animal, looking for any possible exit route before fleeing. Which is exactly what he had done seconds later, not looking back even once. It had taken all of Gladio’s resolve not to drop everything and run after him. But the show hadn’t stopped at his convenience, the world hadn’t suddenly started turning around Ignis and all the fucking things that man did to him, and when Prompto had played the first notes of their second song, he had slammed the bass drum and the hi-hat like he always did, and carried on like he needed to.

He’s not sure how he feels about the unexpected disappearing act, not even sure how he feels about him being there to see him play in the first place (because there’s no way Ignis wasn’t there just for him, no way this was a coincidence).

A text would’ve been nice, though. An apology, an excuse, _anything_ would’ve done the trick. Ignis has his number, he knows what to do with it. Maybe it’s that knowledge, more than the fact he bounced after only one song (which they had fucking nailed, so it can’t be because they sucked), that wounds him.

He swallows the rest of his beer as he picks up his phone one more time, just in case a text came in and his phone has somehow stopped notifying him. It happens, right?

Still nothing.

That’s when Prompto comes and finds him, leaving behind the handful of fans he’s been chatting up with for most of the night. Gladio usually does the same, but tonight, after Ignis has singlehandedly crushed his hopes of a nice conversation around a few drinks (and who knows what more), all he really wants to do is sulk and feel sorry for himself, so he’d stationed himself at the corner of the bar and had downed beer after beer waiting for a text and the time to go home.

‘Still nothing, big guy?’ Prompto asks, cheeks flushed and eyes half-lidded, both from sleepiness and from the shots and drinks he and Crowe have been offered all night.

He doesn’t respond, throwing his phone back on the bar flippantly in an attempt to not look like the sad, pathetic, lovelorn loser drinking his sorrows away at the bar he really is.

‘You sure it was him?’ Prompto continues.

‘Of fucking _course_ it was him, Prom.’

( _‘I could pick out that gorgeous face out of any crowd,’_ he wants to say but doesn’t, for the sake of the cool vibe he’s trying to project.)

‘Sorry, dude,’ Prompto simply says with a pat on his shoulder. ‘Guess that’s something to talk about at your next session?’

Oh _fuck._

He’d been so busy feeling sorry for his own sulky ass, he’d completely forgotten about the session he has scheduled with Ignis two days from now. He doesn’t want to think about how awkward the conversation will be, how they’ll have to fumble around the elephant in the room, how any mention of Gladio’s music will bring about these words they now really need to have on the table.

‘Well that’s gonna fucking suck. Wanna go for me?’

‘Oh come on dude,’ Prompto laughs with a tap on his shoulder. ‘I’m sure he’ll explain.’

There’s no doubt Ignis has an explanation. Gladio just isn’t sure it’s something he wants to hear. But he supposes Prompto does have a point; they’ll have to talk about it at some point, right? He can wait two days. He can stop agonizing over a text he shouldn’t even be expecting for two small days, right? Right.

—

He does a relatively good job of ignoring the lack of new texts from Ignis in his phone the next day. Sleeping most of it away and spending more than half of his waking hours mindlessly watching a Chopped marathon on TV while playing Bejeweled on his phone makes the entire ordeal much easier to go through. He starts slipping around band practice, where he has to drop over 15 dollars in small change into the Asshole Tax jar after being constantly called out by his bandmates for peeking at his phone any chance he gets, missing all of his cues, and spacing out during any discussion Pelna, Crowe and Prompto get into.

He spends the bus ride home and the rest of the evening talking, and then arguing with Prompto, half because he enjoys it, half because he can’t allow Prompto to defend Hootie and the Blowfish’s existence without a fight (sadly a recurring topic between them). He looks at his phone some more after Prompto goes to bed, then decides to call it a night himself before he can finish typing that text to Ignis he’d be more than certain to regret later on.

He wakes up at 5 the next morning, relieved he only needs to agonize through an eight-hour shift before his appointment with Ignis at 5:30 PM. Work isn’t interesting enough to keep his mind occupied, however, as he somehow ends up trying to sneakily check his phone while filling the shelves and almost drops an entire box of Sourpuss on the floor. He bounces before anyone can ask him to stay a bit longer at the end of his shift, then rushes home to grab a quick shower and a protein bar before heading back downtown to the tattoo shop.

His nervousness turn into a quiet disinterest somewhere along the way there, possibly due to his tiredness more than a sudden change of heart. He doesn’t have anything to feel bad about, he figures. If Ignis has an explanation for him, he’ll work from there. If not, he’ll be more than happy to let this fade back into a business relationship and nothing more (as it should’ve been, probably, as he had hoped it wouldn’t have to be).

Noctis is at his usual station when Gladio arrives at the shop. The music is at a decent volume, this time around, and Noctis even says hi when he sees him.

‘Sup, kid?’ Gladio asks, and laughs at the predictable offense on his face. His anger subsides as he chooses instead to inform him Ignis will be done in a few minutes.

‘Sorry I couldn’t make it on Monday, man,’ he says ‘Heard the show was good.’

_I’m surprised Ignis could judge from just one song,_ Gladio wants to say, but rationalises Noctis had nothing to do with Ignis’ shitty attitude.

‘s’fine,’ he says calmly instead. ‘Next time, maybe. I’m sure Prompto’ll let you know.’

‘Speaking of which,’ Noctis continues, ‘Did Prompto still want those tattoos? ‘Cause I have a few ideas, and—’

‘How ‘bout I give you his number?’ Gladio interrupts, not exactly in the mood for a status update on Noct’s abilities.

He nods, handing Gladio his phone with what almost looks like an excited smile. He types in Prompto’s number, hoping he won’t mind how readily Gladio gives away his personal information.

Ignis chooses that moment to open the door to the studio space, walking behind a woman with her calf neatly wrapped in gauze and plastic wrap. Ignis smiles at her while giving her the same pointers on how to care for the tattoo he had given Gladio a few weeks ago. The tinge of jealousy he feels evaporates when he sees the woman walk up to Noctis to pay for the same jar of lotion Ignis had given him free of charge.

‘Are you ready, Gladio?’ Ignis asks him after the woman has left the shop. Gladio nods, trying to keep his expression neutral and ignoring the tightness in his stomach as he heads towards the other room. (He had convinced himself he wasn’t nervous, that he didn’t expect anything, but his willpower evaporates as quickly as it had appeared.)

He settles down into the cushioned chair and takes off his shirt as Ignis closes the door behind him and sits on his rolling chair. He turns his back on Gladio as he puts on his black latex gloves in silence and gets his gear ready for him.

He finally turns around to look at Gladio, and it’s hard not to notice how his gaze roams all over Gladio’s body before finally meeting his eyes. If Gladio didn’t care about an explanation earlier, that need is now back with a vengeance.

‘Ready?’ Ignis asks innocently, and Gladio nods again, lest he says something he’ll regret.

Ignis sets the stencils on his shoulder and left pec with a silence Gladio is willing to blame on his focus. He looks so beautiful, still, with how effortless this all seems to him, and the conflicting feelings in his head are about to drive him mad when Ignis grabs his tattoo gun, pushes him into the chair and speaks at last.

‘I… I believe I owe you an apology.’

Gladio’s eyes open wide. He had almost given up on hearing those words out of him. He says nothing, waiting for Ignis to actually apologise before thinking of a response.

‘I, um… I apologise for coming to your show unannounced, first of all,’ he continues as he lets the tattoo gun hover over Gladio’s skin without digging in. ‘And I’m sorry I left so abruptly. That was rude of me.’

Gladio looks at him a touch longer, trying to analyze how sincere he really is. But Ignis’ expression is as unreadable as usual, and he turns his head back to his work before long, pushing the needle into his skin at last. Gladio winces at the sting, a whole new kind of painful now that Ignis has reached his chest.

‘It’s fine,’ he responds. ‘I mean, it _was_ rude.’ Ignis chuckles quietly at the remark. ‘But I appreciate the apology.’

‘I’m glad to hear that,’ he murmurs, and it makes Gladio’s heart pound slightly harder that he’s close enough to be able to hear it.

‘Can I just ask… why leave like that?’

That’s the million dollar question, isn’t it? That’s what has really been on Gladio’s mind this entire time, not whether Ignis cares for him or not, or what it meant that he left, just… why did he leave in the first place?

‘I...’ a deep sigh, an even deeper breath. ‘I was embarrassed, I suppose.’

‘Embarrassed?’

‘That you saw me. I was worried… I’m not even sure. That you’d be uncomfortable knowing I was there? That you’d think I’m some sort of obsessive degenerate… something like that.’

Gladio blinks, looks at him for a long time, can’t quite put his finger on how he feels about that confession.

‘I was happy to see you, though,’ Gladio says in a barely audible voice, and Ignis stops his movement without lifting his eyes from Gladio’s skin, stares in front of him as if trying to assess how that made _him_ feel. He regains his composure soon after, and it’s like he never stopped at all.

‘In any case,’ he clears his throat and looks up at last, ‘I panicked and ran, and I’m truly regret doing that. It was rude and I’m sorry.’

‘Man, that’s a good apology,’ Gladio laughs after torturing him with his silence for entirely too long, to which Ignis frowns, but there’s a curl at the corner of his lips he can’t quite restrain. ‘It’s all good. Appreciate hearing it, though.’

‘As I said, I owed you as much,’ he smiles. ‘If it still means anything, the one song I did hear was phenomenal. If I’m honest, I expected your band to be a lot more terrible.’

‘ _Wow,’_ Gladio says, but laughs it off immediately. ‘I’ll take the part of that that was a compliment, I guess.’

‘Perhaps you should stop underselling yourself like that, Gladio,’ Ignis laughs back, to which Gladio smiles and raises an eyebrow. He tries not to make it too obvious how delightful his name sounds amidst Ignis’ laughter.

It’s a weight lifted off both their shoulders, at least, and they can talk normally for what remains of the session without feeling like anything is left unsaid (anything Gladio is willing to share at the moment, anyway).

Time flies and before long, Ignis is wrapping Gladio’s shoulder and chest in gauze again.

‘If you’re amenable,’ Ignis says as Gladio starts getting off the chair, ‘I’d like to show you something I think you’ll get a good laugh out of,’ he says with a shy grin. ‘As further apology, if you will,’ he adds.

‘Sure, Gladio says, trying to sound more intrigued than eager.

‘Excellent, please give me a second,’ he says as he turns around to shut the blinds on the large windows covering the wall to the reception area, making sure Noctis can’t see what he’s about to do. Gladio’s heart is thundering in his chest, and he tries as hard as he can to keep his mind from running wild with all the things Ignis could possibly be about to do.

He then walks in front of Gladio and stops as his hands find his belt, which he starts undoing after a second of hesitation, then reaching for the button and zipper of his black jeans and going for those as well. Gladio’s best efforts aren’t enough to stop his imagination from flying wild thinking of where Ignis could _possibly_ be going with this.

‘So much for not looking like a degenerate, I realize,’ Ignis says with a bashful laugh as he pulls the pants down mid-thighs. Gladio would joke about how poor a job he’s doing of not looking like he’s giving him a show if he weren’t so frazzled by the sight of Ignis in his black briefs and the… bold outline of what’s hidden underneath. That’s when he notices the large, colourful tattoos spreading all across his surprisingly thick thighs. It’s beautiful enough to make him forget about the bulge in Ignis’ underwear, and he immediately gets caught up with all the different shapes and designs, each more stunning than the next.

‘I’m sorry about the… Anyway, what I wanted to show you is this,’ he says as he points a long, nimble, tattooed finger at a spot in the middle of his left thigh. ‘I know you were hesitant to tell me the name of your band because of how nerdy it is, so I wanted to let you know I’m… well, just as bad,’ he laughs as he pushes his leg forward towards Gladio so he can get a better look.

Gladio leans forward as his eyes find the tattoo in question. It’s…

‘Is this an Final Fantasy Tactics tattoo?!’ Gladio yelps, a large smile spreading across his face.

‘It is,’ Ignis responds with an embarrassed smile. ‘I… was tasked with replicating designs that weren’t my own as part of my training, years ago. I figured I might as well pay tribute to my favourite game.’

‘Mind if I…’ Gladio asks as he starts crouching so he can get a better look.

‘Please,’ Ignis simply says with a smile.

‘Are you saying you drew this yourself?’ Gladio asks, incredulous as he takes in the large, unbelievably detailed, colourful tattoo replicating a piece of official art from the game, the very same one Gladio has had as a phone background for years. It climbs across his thigh and finishes somewhere under the band of his underwear. The sight sends a shiver through Gladio, but he tries his best not to let it show.

‘Oh I—I _tattooed_ it myself,’ he corrects, looking away when Gladio finally takes his eyes off the piece to look up at Ignis.

‘You tattooed your own thigh?!’ Gladio asks as he gets up to face Ignis again.

‘Everything on my thighs is my doing, actually.’

‘That… sounds completely insane.’

‘It _is_ a little insane,’ he laughs quietly. ‘I needed to practice colours and didn’t want to burden anyone if I fucked up…’ he shrugs.

‘It’s… they’re fucking beautiful, Ignis, holy shit,’ Gladio simply says, ghosting his fingers across the skin of Ignis’ thigh. Gladio notices the goosebumps raising at the almost-touch, smiles to himself at the thought that _he’s_ the one who caused them. Ignis waves him off and pulls his pants back on with a shy laughter.

‘They’re nothing special, but thank you.’

‘I’ve never seen you do colours.’

‘I… don’t. That was N—um, my mentor back in London’s specialty, and he taught me well, but, well, I’ve always preferred all black myself.’

‘That’s fair, I guess,’ Gladio says, head cocked to the side as he slowly peels his eyes off of Ignis’ toned legs, the bulge in his underwear, the…

‘Excuse me, my eyes are up here, sir,’ Ignis scolds with a sarcastic smile, and Gladio’s eyes jump upwards immediately.

‘Hey, you’re the one who insisted on showing me your thighs, man,’ he shrugs, to which Ignis bursts out laughing and…

It’s back at long last. That sweet, almost juvenile laughter, crystal clear and rippling out of him like a sweet melody. Gladio is glad Ignis turns around to open the door and the same time, because the full body shiver he feels coursing through him and the twitch in his stomach (and somewhere a bit lower) at the sound would be hard to explain.

‘Well, goodnight Gladio. We’ll be in touch for the next session.’

‘Thanks Ignis, g’night,’ he smiles as he goes for a friendly tap of the hand on Ignis’ shoulder but lands in the crook of his neck, his fingers finding the tip of a few strands of hair, his thumb shadowing the outline of his throat. Gladio loses himself in the feeling of the soft, tattooed skin under his fingers, lingers a bit longer than either of them expects. Ignis doesn’t flinch, doesn’t try to escape as their eyes lock into each other. Ignis looks at him, pupils dilated and lips slightly parted, and Gladio could kiss him, right then and there, if he could just remember how to breathe. 

Ignis is the one to move at long last, breaking the eye contact to look at the floor instead. Gladio shakes his head as time picks up its course, gives Ignis’ shoulder a light squeeze before he lets go, then heads towards the door with a fumbling ‘See ya.’

His walk to the subway is a blur, and when he finally regains full consciousness, he takes out his phone to furiously shoot Prompto a text.

Gladio [10:33 PM] _I think I did something dumb…_

***

A week has passed since Gladio’s last appointment, but the memory of his hand against Ignis’ neck is still so vivid, he can almost see its outline on his skin. He can still feel the warmth, the weight of each each finger, the tenderness behind hands that look so rough but touch so gently.

He can’t quite explain what happened. Can barely remember how it happened. They were saying goodbye one second, trapped under some sort of spell the next, unable to pull away from each other—unwilling, perhaps.

Ignis isn’t quite sure what it meant, can’t stop imagining a scenario where he doesn’t look away, where Gladio leans forward, pulls at his hair gently, where Ignis tips his head back, where Gladio’s lips meet with his, the grip around his neck and shoulder tightening just so, can’t—

It’s a mess (he’s a mess). A whole damn mess. It would be easy to blame Gladio, but he’s just as responsible himself, if he’s honest.

He figures the wedding he’s been invited (more like forced) to attend can take his mind off of Gladio if only for one night.

Ignis shakes his head as he finally extends a hand to grab the suit the dry cleaner’s employee is handing him. He thanks him with a nod and exits the store to go find Noctis waiting for him in the car.

‘Took you long enough,’ Noctis snarks, which Ignis gladly ignores, choosing to focus on fastening his seatbelt instead. ‘I don’t feel like going to this thing,’ Noctis whines when he sees he’s getting no response out of Ignis. ‘It’s going to be all stuffy n’shit.’

‘You’re right. You certainly aren’t well mannered enough for these kinds of events,’ Ignis deadpans, and Noctis turns towards him, indignant, only to see Ignis gazing out the window and smirking to himself.

‘Whatever, man,’ he shrugs.

Noctis puts the car into drive and leaves the parking spot, almost hitting the bus in front of him in the process. Ignis considers scolding him, but he’s quickly realized Noctis clearly doesn’t give a shit about Ignis’ life nor his own when he’s at the wheel.

‘Is Luna coming?’ Ignis tries after long seconds of silence, though he can already guess the answer.

Noctis takes a beat to respond, probably pondering if crafting a lie on the spot is worth the trouble.

‘Hospital asked her to come back yesterday. Drove her to the airport this morning,’ he mumbles, furrowing his brows and staring at the road.

‘I’m sorry,’ Ignis simply says, to which Noctis shrugs, then hits the brakes so hard Ignis almost crashes into the windshield

‘Jesus fucking Christ, Noct!’ he hisses.

‘Sorry. Pigeon,’ is all he has to say for himself as he nods towards the road, where a very fat pigeon is slowly waddling towards the other side without a care in the world.

It’s nice to know Noctis cares about _some_ lives.

‘Just fly, you dumb fuck,’ Ignis mumbles, itching for a smoke but unwilling to admit to Noctis he’s picked up the habit again. He bites at the skin of his thumb instead.

‘Anyway,’ Noct says, changing the subject as if nothing had happened, ‘I hope the band at the reception is good, at least.’

‘Your father told me it was a jazz duo.’

‘Son of a _bitch_.’

Ignis agrees wholeheartedly.

—

A few hours later, and the two of them are all dressed up and sitting at the back of one of Regis’ car (with their own chauffeur, thank you very much), neither of them willing to drive to a reception where the open bar might be their only salvation.

Ignis has decided that if he’s to waste his entire night being somewhere he doesn’t want to be, he might as well do it in style. He’s wearing his favourite suit: a deep-blue three-piece affair with large clutters of red, white and yellow flowers spreading across the waist, cuffs, and lapels of the jacket; there are even more flowers on the vest and around his thighs and ankles. He completes the outfit with his favourite black leather wingtips boots, his signature gold collar chain, a matching septum ring and plain black wooden plugs in his ears. He may not have anyone to show off to, but for the first time in recent days, he feels sexy; he feels _powerful._

Noctis, to absolutely no one’s surprise, opted for an all-black ensemble. He cleans up well, Ignis must admit, a nice change from his usual skin-tight, ripped black jeans and oversized graphic t-shirts.

Ignis still isn’t exactly thrilled at the idea of spending one of his few free evenings at the wedding of one of Noctis’ third cousins he’s never even heard of, but they were invited personally, and turning them down would’ve been rude. Probably.

(Ignis had said no initially but, well, Regis himself had asked him to attend, and he had reluctantly changed his tune.)

They had at least been allowed to skip the ceremony, which was a small blessing on its own. Now they only needed to stuff their faces and drink their misery away until they were allowed to go home.

He could do this. It was going to be fine.

They arrive fashionably late, the bride and groom having already greeted their guests and been forced to dramatically kiss in front of everyone at least three times by the time Ignis and Noctis find their respective seats (they haven’t been assigned to the same table, and Ignis isn’t quite sure whether it’s a good thing or not).

He’s well into his third glass of wine (far too weak for his whisky-loving taste) when he hears a familiar voice coming from the speakers, replacing the generic pop music that had been playing until then. Ignis lifts his head from his phone and looks for the source of the sound as he tries to recall where he’s heard that voice before.

He finally gets up to look for it himself, and Noctis meets him halfway through, taken with the same feeling that they _definitely_ know that voice from somewhere. The stage is far away, but he can see a mop of blond, spiky hair from where he stands. It almost looks like…

‘Holy shit, Ignis, it’s Prompto!’

What the _fuck?_

Before he can make sure for himself, the music starts, and the fact that there’s only drums as an accompaniment for the piano can only mean one thing.

(Or so he hopes.)

He makes his way through the numerous guests standing between him and the stage, a reminder of that fated night a few weeks ago, though definitely not as entrancing or exciting.

He finally makes his way to the stage where, sure enough, none other than Gladio is hammering away at the drums, his jazz beat as subdued and controlled as he had been unhinged and carefree the other night. His hair is pulled into a tight bun, his beard neatly trimmed, and he’s wearing a fitted black suit that espouses his shape to perfection There’s a deep red bow-tie around his neck that should looks ridiculous, but completes the ensemble perfectly.

It takes Gladio all of five seconds to spot Ignis amongst the crowd. The shit-eating grin that immediately replaces his expression of surprise is charming, infuriating, and irresistible all at once. Ignis suddenly wishes he wasn’t tipsy, because every movement that Gladio makes is fluid and effortless and so goddamn attractive, and he is being sucked in all over again, with even less intention of stopping it than ever before.

They play without interruption for an hour and a half, and it’s the longest, most strenuous hour and a half Ignis has ever had to sit through. He’s jittery, overwhelmed with the urge to talk to Gladio, but there seems to be no end in sight to the string of corny, jazzified covers of even cornier songs that should never be jazzified. The fact that Gladio shoots him glances and wry smiles every chance he gets makes this entire waiting ordeal ten times more painful

But it does end eventually. Prompto thanks the crowd and congratulates the newlyweds like a perfect gentleman, and the pre-recorded pop music takes over right away as he starts putting away his music sheets. Gladio, on the other end, throws all manners out the window, doesn’t even wait for Prompto to finish his speech before jumping off the stage and making his way towards Ignis.

‘Hey, you didn’t run away this time!’ Gladio says in lieu of a greeting, a devious grin on his face.

‘I… suppose I deserve that,’ Ignis chuckles to himself.

‘Thank fucking god you’re here,’ Gladio leans forward and whispers in his ear, soft and sweet and devastatingly attractive. ‘The mood in this place is fucking _awful_ ,’ he continues, pulling away and smiling brightly at Ignis, who’s about to liquefy under his eyes.

‘Your repertoire certainly didn’t help, I must say.’

‘Not our decision, believe me,’ Gladio laughs.

Ignis laughs back as he tries to regain some of his composure, but he still can’t quite contain his smile at the fact the Gladio is here, happy to see him, all dolled up and un-fucking-believably sexy.

They look at each other for long seconds, unsure what to do next. Maybe it’s the little alcohol he’s had playing tricks on him, but Ignis has half a mind to just kiss his stupid, beautiful face on the spot. But they are in front of everyone, Gladio isn’t even a _guest,_ so he curbs his enthusiasm for the time being. Still, the wanton look in Gladio’s eyes, his sheepish grin, the casual touch to his arm as he checks Ignis out are enough to confirm that this is not over, that this is only the beginning of a conversation to be continued, hopefully soon. 

‘Um, can I buy you a drink?’ Ignis asks at long last, hoping they didn’t bring too much attention to themselves, though from where he stands, he doesn’t actually care all that much.

‘Isn’t this an open bar?’ Gladio snorts, to which Ignis cocks an eyebrow in his direction.

‘Are you questioning my generosity?’

‘I _did_ sort of scam you with that tattoo I guess. I’ll take it.’

Gladio takes him up on his offer, but needs to go put his gear away first, which he does very quickly, either because he wants to get out of here soon, or because he’s eager to have that drink with him. Ignis decides it’s the latter, because he is tipsy and entirely smitten and in the mood for poor decisions.

Gladio comes back after stuffing everything in a van, which someone then drives away (possibly a bandmate; Ignis doesn’t bother to ask, nor does he really care). They laugh as they head towards the bar. Ignis wonders briefly if Gladio is trying to murder him with all the small, casual touches that shouldn’t resonate in his entire body the way they do, in the small of his back, his forearm, with the faint brush of their hands. It’s more than he can handle, and he needs to either get away from him or just give up and dive in, because dangling in the middle like he is now just isn’t a viable option anymore.

They chat (flirt) at the bar for a few minutes before Prompto and Noctis show up to (ruin) interrupt their conversation.

‘We’re about to go smoke,’ Prompto says in a low, not at all suspicious voice. ‘You guys in?’

Gladio hesitates, throws an inquisitive glance towards Ignis, waiting for his response before sharing his own.

‘Why not?’ Ignis shrugs. He’s bored, this wedding is terrible, and he knows none of these people, Gladio is here, beautiful and willing, and that’s all he needs to be convinced, and to hell with rational thinking.

The four of them sneak out of the dining room through the kitchen and out the back door, Gladio’s hand brushing against the small of Ignis’ back the entire time, and Ignis hopes Gladio can’t feel how hard his heart is beating, nor notice the faint blush on his cheeks.

They walk to a small patch of trees near the reception hall, and wait while Prompto takes out a small plastic bag from his ass pocket and gets everything ready under Noctis’ careful eyes. Gladio takes advantage of the fact that the other two are busy to slip an arm over Ignis’ shoulders. He tenses up for a split second, surprised, then loosens up at the touch, warm and comfortable.

‘You look fucking great in that suit,’ Gladio leans over and whispers in his ear, keeping a careful eye on the other two, who are either blissfully unaware of what is going on, or are in on some sort of plan to leave the two of them alone. Whichever it is, Ignis is thankful for their obliviousness as he smiles and whispers a soft “thank you” without daring looking up.

Gladio slowly removes his arm as Prompto comes towards them with a joint, and Ignis misses the weight on his shoulders immediately, craves for more contact, any kind of contact. But Prompto lights the joint, takes a hit and hands it to him before he can delve into it too much. Ignis brings the joint to his lips with practiced ease and takes a long drag, lets it spread throughout his body before blowing out the thick smoke, almost in a sigh. This is good. As good as his first cigarette, as good as Gladio’s smile, as good as Gladio’s arm against his shoulders, as his hand in the crook of his neck. It’s as good as all the good things he’s been denying himself lately, by fear of reprisal, because of unfounded guilt. His worries start to not seem so worrisome anymore as the drugs take their soothing, relaxing effect on him.

Gladio takes the joint from his hand and takes a hit for himself, closing his eyes as he lets the smoke overtake him. He hands it to Noctis next, and stands just a bit closer to Ignis, his right hand rubbing lightly at his lower-back. It isn’t much, but it’s also everything. It’s both overwhelming and too little and Ignis closes his eyes so he doesn’t do anything stupid and reckless and impulsive, settling for leaning against Gladio’s shoulder instead.

When he opens his eyes again, Noctis and Prompto are back by the door, laughing at something on Prompto’s phone. Gladio is facing him now, holding what’s left of the joint in his fingers, and runs his free hand up the flowery pattern of Ignis’ suit, from his stomach to his chest, before nestling in Ignis’ neck, right behind his ear, outlining the side of his jaw. He tips Ignis’ head up lightly. It’s a sight to behold; Gladio’s eyes are wide and bright, and they look at him with an adoration Ignis revels in. He’s so fucking beautiful, so damn irresistible, Ignis wants to kiss him so badly, but Gladio seems to have plans for the two of them, so he lets him go through with it.

‘Is this ok?’ Gladio asks in a whisper, and Ignis nods without having to think about it. From where he stands at this very moment, he’s willing to take anything Gladio has to offer him.

Gladio brings what’s left of the joint to his lips and takes a long drag. He holds the smoke in as he tugs at Ignis’ bottom lips with a rough thumb, prompting Ignis to open his mouth, and Ignis obliges.

Gladio leans forward then, stopping as his lips are about to touch Ignis’, the ghost of their heat causing an uprising in all of Ignis’ senses, killing him with need and anticipation. That’s when Gladio blows out the smoke as Ignis inhales, clasping his hand against his throat _just so._ Ignis holds the smoke in for a few seconds, his eyes fluttering open, finding Gladio’s wide amber gaze devouring him entirely. He breathes out then, carefully aiming the smoke away from Gladio, half to be polite, half so that he doesn’t leave his sight even for a second.

‘Again?’ Gladio asks him in a soft voice, and Ignis tips his head against Gladio’s shoulder with a soft chuckle, closes his eyes and wallows in Gladio’s warmth, the faint smell of his cologne, the sheer width of his strong shoulders.

‘Please,’ he finally responds, using what little willpower he has left to pull himself from Gladio’s shoulder, settling back to his initial position. Gladio’s smile is unreadable, somewhere between goofy and smitten, but entirely contagious as Ignis can’t keep his own lips from curling up at the sight.

And they go at it all over again. Gladio’s hand is back in the nape of his neck, and it’s almost unbearable, how right it feels, how it simply falls into place like it was always meant to fit in there. Ignis tips his head backwards without prompting, this time around, licks his lips and parts them slightly as Gladio takes a final drag from the joint and flicks the butt away. He brings his lips to Ignis’ once more, stopping himself right before they can touch in earnest, blows the smoke out as Ignis breathes it in, but decides not to pull away when he’s done. He falls into Ignis’ inhale instead, pressing his lips against Ignis’, slipping another hand along his neck, pulling him up, and Ignis has no other desire than to follow his guidance, pushing himself into the kiss, blowing the smoke out his nose as he opens his lips fully, welcomes Gladio’s hesitant tongue in. It becomes urgent, then, open mouthed and sloppy and so fucking intoxicating, Ignis isn’t sure he can ever get enough of it. Their tongues meet, soft and needy and warm, and Ignis’ hands slither down Gladio’s back, all the way to the crook where his ass and thighs meet, and he clutches at it with a strength he didn’t know he had. Gladio inhales sharply at the touch, pushes his entire body towards Ignis before stopping himself, breaking the kiss first, with a light bite at Ignis’ bottom lip, slowly letting go of him, a teasing smile and half-lidded eyes on his face.

‘ _Fuck,’_ Ignis exhales, pressing his forehead against Gladio’s, basking in the low ripple of Gladio’s laughter as he does, and _god,_ the simple feeling of his breath against his skin is making his imagination run wild.

‘So, wanna go out sometimes?’ Gladio rumbles in his ear, and Ignis can only stuff his head in the crook of Gladio’s neck and laughs softly. Gladio’s arms against his waist do nothing to make him lean towards what the smart, rational decision would be.

This is a terrible, terrible idea.

But he’s never been one to resist temptation for very long, now, has he?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will more smooches be shared?   
> Is it all smooth sailin' from here??  
> IS THIS REALLY HAPPENING???  
> Find out soon!!
> 
> (in case you were wondering, [this](https://img.etsystatic.com/il/d413a6/429845184/il_570xN.429845184_tgna.jpg?version=0) is what Ignis has tattooed on his thigh)
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you so so so much for reading! Comments and kudos eternally appreciated! ♥♥
> 
> (Come yell at me on [tumblr](http://roadsoftrial.tumblr.com/) and [ffxv tumblr](https://thelegendarynoctgar.tumblr.com/)!!)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [you can have half](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15484299) by [aliatori](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aliatori/pseuds/aliatori)




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